HALF  PORTIONS 


BY 
EDNA  FERBER 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1920 


qtl 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  THE  METROPOLITAN  PUBLICATIONS,  INC. 

COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  THE  AMERICAN  NATIONAL  RED  CROSS 

COPYRIGHT,  1919,  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1919,  P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON,  INC. 
COPYRIGHT,  1920,  THE  McCLURE  PUBLICATIONS,  INC. 


CONTENTS 

I .  THE  MATERNAL  FEMININE      ....  3 

II .  APRIL  25TH,  AS  USUAL 36 

III .  OLD  LADY  MANDLE 76 

IV.  YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH   ....  113 
V.  LONG  DISTANCE 148 

VI.  UN  MORSO  Doo  PANG 157 

VII.  ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT 201 

VIII .  FARMER  IN  THE  DELL £39 

IX.  THE  DANCING  GIRLS 280 


428487 


Half  "Portions 

THE  MATERNAL  FEMININE 

CALLED  upon  to  describe  Aunt  Sophy  you 
would  have  to  coin  a  term  or  fall  back  on 
the  dictionary  definition  of  a  spinster. 
"An  unmarried  woman,"  states  that  worthy  work, 
baldly,  "especially  when  no  longer  young."  That, 
to  the  world,  was  Sophy  Decker.  Unmarried, 
certainly.  And  most  certainly  no  longer  young. 
In  figure  she  was,  at  fifty,  what  is  known  in  the 
corset  ads  as  a  "stylish  stout."  Well  dressed  in 
blue  serge,  with  broad-toed  health  shoes  and  a 
small,  astute  hat.  The  blue  serge  was  practical 
common  sense.  The  health  shoes  were  comfort. 
The  hat  was  strictly  business.  Sophy  Decker 
made  and  sold  hats,  both  astute  and  ingenuous,  to 
the  female  population  of  Chippewa,  Wisconsin. 
Chippewa's  East-End  set  bought  the  knowing  type 
of  hat,  and  the  mill  hands  and  hired  girls  bought 
the  naive  ones.  But  whether  lumpy  or  possessed 
of  that  indefinable  thing  known  as  line,  Sophy 
Decker's  hats  were  honest  hats. 

3 


4  HALF  PORTIONS 

The  world  is  full  of  Aunt  Sophys,  unsung.  Plump, 
ruddy,  capable  women  of  middle  age.  Unwed, 
and  rather  looked  down  upon  by  a  family  of  mar 
ried  sisters  and  tolerant,  good-humoured  brothers- 
in-law,  and  careless  nieces  and  nephews. 

"Poor  Aunt  Soph,"  with  a  significant  half 
smile.  "She's  such  a  good  old  thing.  And  she's 
had  so  little  in  life,  really." 

She  was,  undoubtedly,  a  good  old  thing — Aunt 
Soph.  Forever  sending  a  spray  of  sweeping  black 
paradise,  like  a  jet  of  liquid  velvet,  to  this  pert 
little  niece  in  Seattle;  or  taking  Adele,  sister 
Flora's  daughter,  to  Chicago  or  New  York,  as  a 
treat,  on  one  of  her  buying  trips.  Burdening  her 
self,  on  her  business  visits  to  these  cities,  with  a 
dozen  foolish  shopping  commissions  for  the  idle 
women  folk  of  her  family.  Hearing  without 
partisanship  her  sisters'  complaints  about  their, 
husbands,  and  her  sisters'  husbands'  complaints 
about  their  wives.  It  was  always  the  same. 

"I'm  telling  you  this,  Sophy.  I  wouldn't 
breathe  it  to  another  living  soul.  But  I  honestly 
think,  sometimes,  that  if  it  weren't  for  the  chil 
dren " 

There  is  no  knowing  why  they  confided  these 
things  to  Sophy  instead  of  to  each  other,  these 
wedded  sisters  of  hers.  Perhaps  they  held  for  each 
other  an  unuttered  distrust  or  jealousy.  Perhaps, 


THE  MATERNAL  FEMININE          5 

In  making  a  confidante  of  Sophy,  there  was  some 
thing  of  the  satisfaction  that  comes  of  dropping 
a  surreptitious  stone  down  a  deep  well  and  hearing 
it  plunk,  safe  in  the  knowledge  that  it  has  struck 
no  one  and  that  it  cannot  rebound,  lying  there  in 
the  soft  darkness.  Sometimes  they  would  end  by 
saying,  "But  you  don't  know  what  it  is,  Sophy. 
You  can't.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  I'm  telling 
you  all  this." 

But  when  Sophy  answered,  sagely,  "I  know;  I 
know" — they  paid  little  heed,  once  having  un 
burdened  themselves.  The  curious  part  of  it  is 
that  she  did  know.  She  knew  as  a  woman  of  fifty 
must  know  who,  all  her  life,  has  given  and  given  and 
in  return  has  received  nothing.  Sophy  Decker  had 
never  used  the  word  inhibition  in  her  life.  I  doubt 
if  she  knew  what  it  meant.  When  you  are  busy 
copying  French  models  for  the  fall  trade  you  have 
little  time  or  taste  for  Freud.  She  only  knew 
(without  in  the  least  knowing  she  knew)  that  in 
giving  of  her  goods,  of  her  affections,  of  her  time, 
of  her  energy,  she  found  a  certain  relief.  Her  own 
people  would  have  been  shocked  if  you  had  told 
them  that  there  was  about  this  old  maid  aunt 
something  rather  splendidly  Rabelaisian.  With 
out  being  at  all  what  is  known  as  a  masculine 
woman  she  had,  somehow,  acquired  the  man's 
viewpoint,  his  shrewd  value  sense.  She  ate 


6  HALF  PORTIONS 

a  good  deal,  and  enjoyed  her  food.  She  did  not 
care  for  those  queer  little  stories  that  married 
women  sometimes  tell,  with  narrowed  eyes,  but 
she  was  strangely  tolerant  of  what  is  known  as  sin. 
So  simple  and  direct  she  was  that  you  wondered 
how  she  prospered  in  a  line  so  subtle  as  the  mil 
linery  business. 

You  might  have  got  a  fairly  true  characteriza 
tion  of  Sophy  Decker  from  one  of  fifty  people: 
from  a  dapper  salesman  in  a  New  York  or  Chicago 
wholesale  millinery  house;  from  Otis  Cowan, 
cashier  of  the  First  National  Bank  of  Chippewa; 
from  Julia  Gold,  her  head  milliner  and  trimmer; 
from  almost  any  one,  in  fact,  except  a  member  of 
her  own  family.  They  knew  her  least  of  all,  as  is 
often  true  of  one's  own  people.  Her  three  married 
sisters — Grace  in  Seattle,  Ella  in  Chicago,  and 
Flora  in  Chippewa — regarded  her  with  a  rather 
affectionate  disapproval  from  the  snug  safety  of 
their  own  conjugal  ingle-nooks. 

"I  don't  know.  There's  something — well — 
common  about  Sophy,"  Flora  confided  to  Ella. 
Flora,  on  shopping  bent  and  Sophy,  seeking  hats, 
had  made  the  five-hour  run  from  Chippewa  to 
Chicago  together.  "She  talks  to  everybody.  You 
should  have  heard  her  with  the  porter  on  our  train. 
Chums !  And  when  the  conductor  took  our  tickets 
it  was  a  social  occasion.  You  know  how  packed 


THE  MATERNAL  FEMININE          7 

the  seven  fifty -two  is.  Every  seat  in  the  parlour 
car  taken.  And  Sophy  asking  the  coloured  porter 
about  how  his  wife  was  getting  along — she  called 
him  William — and  if  they  were  going  to  send  her 
west,  and  all  about  her.  I  wish  she  wouldn't." 

Aunt  Sophy  undeniably  had  a  habit  of  regard 
ing  people  as  human  beings.  You  found  her  talk 
ing  to  chambermaids  and  delivery  boys,  and  eleva 
tor  starters,  and  gas  collectors,  and  hotel  clerks — 
all  that  aloof,  unapproachable,  superior  crew. 
Under  her  benign  volubility  they  bloomed  and 
spread  and  took  on  colour  as  do  those  tight  little 
Japanese  paper  water-flowers  when  you  cast  them 
into  a  bowl.  It  wasn't  idle  curiosity  in  her.  She 
was  interested.  You  found  yourself  confiding  to 
her  your  innermost  longings,  your  secret  tribula 
tions,  under  the  encouragement  of  her  sympathetic, 
"You  don't  say!"  Perhaps  it  was  as  well  that 
sister  Flora  was  in  ignorance  of  the  fact  that  the 
men  millinery  salesmen  at  Danowitz  &  Danowitz, 
Importers,  always  called  Miss  Decker  Aunt  Soph, 
as,  with  one  arm  flung  about  her  plump  blue  serge 
shoulder,  they  revealed  to  her  the  picture  of  their 
girl  in  the  back  flap  of  their  bill-folder. 

Flora,  with  a  firm  grip  on  Chippewa  society, 
as  represented  by  the  East-End  set,  did  not  find 
her  position  enhanced  by  a  sister  in  the  millinery 
business  in  Elm  Street. 


8  HALF  PORTIONS 

"Of  course  it's  wonderful  that  she's  self -sup 
porting  and  successful  and  all,"  she  told  her  hus 
band.  "But  it's  not  so  pleasant  for  Adele,  now 
that  she's  growing  up,  having  all  the  girls  she 
knows  buying  their  hats  of  her  aunt.  Not  that 
I — but  you  know  how  it  is." 

H.  Charnsworth  Baldwin  said  yes,  he  knew. 
But  perhaps  you,  until  you  are  made  more  inti 
mately  acquainted  with  Chippewa,  Wisconsin; 
with  the  Decker  girls  of  twenty  years  ago;  with 
Flora's  husband,  H.  Charnsworth  Baldwin;  and 
with  their  children  Adele  and  Eugene,  may  feel 
a  little  natural  bewilderment. 

The  Deckers  had  lived  in  a  sagging  old  frame 
house  (from  which  the  original  paint  had  long 
ago  peeled  in  great  scrofulous  patches)  on  an 
unimportant  street  in  Chippewa.  There  was  a 
worm-eaten  russet  apple  tree  in  the  yard;  an  un 
tidy  tangle  of  wild-cucumber  vine  over  the  front 
porch;  and  an  uncut  brush  of  sunburnt  grass 
and  weeds  all  about.  From  May  until  Septem 
ber  you  never  passed  the  Decker  place  without 
hearing  the  plunketty-plink  of  a  mandolin  from 
somewhere  behind  the  vines,  accompanied  by  a 
murmur  of  young  voices,  laughter,  and  the  creak- 
creak  of  the  hard-worked  and  protesting  hammock 
hooks.  Flora,  Ella,  and  Grace  Decker  had  more 
beaux  and  fewer  clothes  than  any  other  girls  in 


THE  MATERNAL  FEMININE  9 

Chippewa.  In  a  town  full  of  pretty  young  things 
they  were,  undoubtedly,  the  prettiest;  and  in  a 
family  of  pretty  sisters  (Sophy  always  excepted) 
Flora  was  the  acknowledged  beauty.  She  was 
the  kind  of  girl  whose  nose  never  turns  red  on  a 
frosty  morning.  A  little,  white,  exquisite  nose, 
purest  example  of  the  degree  of  perfection  which 
may  be  attained  by  that  vulgarest  of  features. 
Under  her  great  gray  eyes  were  faint  violet  shad 
ows  which  gave  her  a  look  of  almost  poignant 
wistfulness.  If  there  is  a  less  hackneyed  way  to 
describe  her  head  on  its  slender  throat  than  to  say 
it  was  like  a  lovely  flower  on  its  stalk,  you  are  free 
to  use  it.  Her  slow,  sweet  smile  gave  the  beholder 
an  actual  physical  pang.  Only  her  family  knew 
she  was  lazy  as  a  behemoth,  untidy  about  her 
person,  and  as  sentimental  as  a  hungry  shark.  The 
strange  and  cruel  part  of  it  was  that,  in  some  gro 
tesque,  exaggerated  way,  as  a  cartoon  may  be  like 
a  photograph,  Sophy  resembled  Flora.  It  was  as 
though  Nature,  in  prankish  mood,  had  given  a  cab 
bage  the  colour  and  texture  of  a  rose,  with  none  of 
its  fragile  reticence  and  grace. 

It  was  a  manless  household.  Mrs.  Decker, 
vague,  garrulous,  and  given  to  ice-wool  shawls, 
referred  to  her  dead  husband,  in  frequent  remi 
niscence,  as  poor  Mr.  Decker.  Mrs.  Decker 
dragged  one  leg  as  she  walked — rheumatism,  or  a 


10  HALF  PORTIONS 

spinal  affection.  Small  wonder,  then,  that  Sophy, 
the  plain,  with  a  gift  for  hat-making,  a  knack  at  egg- 
less  cake-baking,  and  a  genius  for  turning  a  sleeve  so 
that  last  year's  style  met  this  year's  without  a 
struggle,  contributed  nothing  to  the  sag  in  the  cen 
tre  of  the  old  twine  hammock  on  the  front  porch. 

That  the  three  girls  should  marry  well,  and 
Sophy  not  at  all,  was  as  inevitable  as  the  sequence 
of  the  seasons.  Ella  and  Grace  did  not  manage 
badly,  considering  that  they  had  only  their  girlish 
prettiness  and  the  twine  hammock  to  work  with. 
But  Flora,  with  her  beauty,  captured  H.  Charns- 
worth  Baldwin.  Chippewa  gasped.  H.  Chains- 
worth  Baldwin  drove  a  skittish  mare  to  a 
high-wheeled  yellow  runabout  (this  was  twenty 
years  ago);  had  his  clothes  made  at  Proctor 
Brothers  in  Milwaukee,  and  talked  about  a  game 
called  golf.  It  was  he  who  advocated  laying  out  a 
section  of  land  for  what  he  called  links,  and  erect 
ing  a  club  house  thereon. 

"The  section  of  the  bluff  overlooking  the  river," 
he  explained,  "is  full  of  natural  hazards,  besides 
having  a  really  fine  view." 

Chippewa — or  that  comfortable,  middle-class 
section  of  it  which  got  its  exercise  walking  home  to 
dinner  from  the  store  at  noon,  and  cutting  the 
grass  evenings  after  supper — laughed  as  it  read 
this  interview  in  the  Chippewa  Eagle. 


THE  MATERNAL  FEMININE         11 

"A  golf  course,"  they  repeated  to  one  another, 
grinning.  "Conklin's  cow  pasture,  up  the  river. 
It's  full  of  natural — wait  a  minute — what  was? — • 
oh,  yeh,  here  it  is — hazards.  Full  of  natural 
hazards.  Say,  couldn't  you  die!" 

For  H.  Charnsworth  Baldwin  had  been  little 
Henry  Baldwin  before  he  went  East  to  college. 
Ten  years  later  H.  Charnsworth,  in  knickerbockers 
and  gay -topped  stockings,  was  winning  the  cup  in 
the  men's  tournament  played  on  the  Chippewa 
golf-club  course,  overlooking  the  river.  And  his 
name,  in  stout  gold  letters,  blinked  at  you  from  the 
plate-glass  windows  of  the  office  at  the  corner  of 
Elm  and  Winnebago: 

NORTHERN  LUMBER  AND  LAND  COMPANY. 
H.  CHARNSWORTH  BALDWIN,  PRES. 

Two  blocks  farther  down  Elm  Street  was 
another  sign,  not  so  glittering,  which  read: 

Miss  SOPHY  DECKER 
Millinery 

Sophy's  hat-making,  in  the  beginning,  had  been 
done  at  home.  She  had  always  made  her  sisters' 
hats,  and  her  own,  of  course,  and  an  occasional  hat 
for  a  girl  friend.  After  her  sisters  had  married 
Sophy  found  herself  in  possession  of  a  rather  be 
wildering  amount  of  spare  time.  The  hat  trade 


U  HALF  PORTIONS 

grew  so  that  sometimes  there  were  six  rather 
botchy  little  bonnets  all  done  up  in  yellow  paper 
pyramids  with  a  pin  at  the  top,  awaiting  their 
future  wearers.  After  her  mother's  death  Sophy 
still  stayed  on  in  the  old  house.  She  took  a  course 
in  millinery  in  Milwaukee,  came  home,  stuck  up 
a  home-made  sign  in  the  parlour  window  (the 
untidy  cucumber  vines  came  down),  and  began 
her  hat-making  in  earnest.  In  five  years  she  had 
opened  a  shop  on  a  side  street  near  Elm;  had 
painted  the  old  house,  installed  new  plumbing, 
built  a  warty  stucco  porch,  and  transformed  the 
weedy,  grass-tangled  yard  into  an  orderly  stretch 
of  green  lawn  and  bright  flower-beds.  In  ten 
years  she  was  in  Elm  Street,  and  the  Chippewa 
Eagle  ran  a  half  column  twice  a  year  describing  her 
spring  and  fall  openings.  On  these  occasions  Aunt 
Sophy,  in  black  satin,  and  marcel  wave,  and  her 
most  relentless  corsets  was,  in  all  the  superficial 
things,  not  a  pleat,  or  fold,  or  line,  or  wave  behind 
her  city  colleagues.  She  had  all  the  catch  phrases: 

"This  is  awfully  good  this  year." 

"Here's  a  sweet  thing.  A  Mornet  model. 
.  .  .  Well,  but  my  dear,  it's  the  style — the 
line — you're  paying  for,  not  the  material." 

"I've  got  the  very  thing  for  you.  I  had  you  in 
mind  when  I  bought  it.  Now  don't  say  you  can't 
wear  henna.  Wait  till  you  see  it  on." 


THE  MATERNAL  FEMININE         15 

When  she  stood  behind  you  as  you  sat,  un 
crowned  and  expectant  before  the  mirror,  she 
would  poise  the  hat  four  inches  above  your  head, 
holding  it  in  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  a  precious,  fragile 
thing.  Your  fascinated  eyes  were  held  by  it,  and 
your  breath  as  well.  Then  down  it  descended, 
slowly,  slowly.  A  quick  pressure.  Her  fingers  firm 
against  your  temples.  A  little  sigh  of  relieved 
suspense. 

"That's  wonderful  on  you!  .  .  .  You 
don't!  Oh,  my  dear!  But  that's  because  you're 
not  used  to  it.  You  know  how  you  said,  for  years, 
you  had  to  have  a  brim,  and  couldn't  possibly 
wear  a  turban,  with  your  nose,  until  I  proved  to 
you  that  if  the  head-size  was  only  big  .  .  . 
Well,  perhaps  this  needs  just  a  lit-tle  lift  here. 
Ju-u-ust  a  nip.  There!  That  does  it." 

And  that  did  it.  Not  that  Sophy  Decker  ever 
tried  to  sell  you  a  hat  against  your  judgment, 
taste,  or  will.  She  was  too  wise  a  psychologist  and 
too  shrewd  a  business  woman  for  that.  She  pre 
ferred  that  you  go  out  of  her  shop  hatless  rather 
than  with  an  unbecoming  hat.  But  whether  you 
bought  or  not  you  took  with  you  out  of  Sophy 
Decker's  shop  something  more  precious  than  any 
hatbox  ever  contained.  Just  to  hear  her  ad 
monishing  a  customer,  her  good-natured  face  all 
aglow: 


14  HALF  PORTIONS 

"My  dear,  always  put  on  your  hat  before  you 
get  into  your  dress.  I  do.  You  can  get  your 
arms  above  your  head,  and  set  it  right.  I  put  on 
my  hat  and  veil  as  soon's  I  get  my  hair  combed." 

In  your  mind's  eye  you  saw  her,  a  stout,  well- 
stayed  figure  in  tight  brassiere  and  scant  petticoat, 
bare-armed  and  bare-bosomed,  in  smart  hat  and 
veil,  attired  as  though  for  the  street  from  the  neck 
up  and  for  the  bedroom  from  the  shoulders  down. 

The  East-End  set  bought  Sophy  Decker's  hats 
because  they  were  modish  and  expensive  hats. 
But  she  managed,  miraculously,  to  gain  a  large  and 
lucrative  following  among  the  paper-mill  girls 
and  factory  hands  as  well.  You  would  have 
thought  that  any  attempt  to  hold  both  these 
opposites  would  cause  her  to  lose  one  or  the  other. 
Aunt  Sophy  said,  frankly,  that  of  the  two,  she 
would  have  preferred  to  lose  her  smart  trade. 

"  The  mill  girls  come  in  with  their  money  in  their 
hands,  you  might  say.  They  get  good  wages  and 
they  want  to  spend  them.  I  wouldn't  try  to  sell 
them  one  of  those  little  plain  model  hats.  They 
wouldn't  understand  'em,  or  like  them.  And  if 
I  told  them  the  price  they'd  think  I  was  trying  to 
cheat  them.  They  want  a  velvet  hat  with  some 
thing  good  and  solid  on  it.  Their  fathers  wouldn't 
prefer  caviar  to  pork  roast,  would  they?  It's 
the  same  idea." 


THE  MATERNAL  FEMININE         15 

Her  shop  windows  reflected  her  business  acumen. 
One  was  chastely,  severely  elegant,  holding  a 
single  hat  poised  on  a  slender  stick.  In  the  other 
were  a  dozen  honest  arrangements  of  velvet  and 
satin  and  plumes. 

At  the  spring  opening  she  always  displayed  one 
of  those  little  toques  completely  covered  with 
violets.  No  one  ever  bought  a  hat  like  that.  No 
one  ever  will.  That  violet-covered  toque  is  a 
symbol. 

"I  don't  expect  'em  to  buy  it,"  Sophy  Decker 
explained.  "But  everybody  feels  there  should  be 
a  hat  like  that  at  a  spring  opening.  It's  like  a  fruit 
centre-piece  at  a  family  dinner.  Nobody  ever  eats 
it  but  it  has  to  be  there." 

The  two  Baldwin  children — Adele  and  Eugene — 
found  Aunt  Sophy's  shop  a  treasure  trove.  Adele, 
during  her  doll  days,  possessed  such  boxes  of  satin 
and  velvet  scraps,  and  bits  of  lace,  and  ribbon  and 
jet  as  to  make  her  the  envy  of  all  her  playmates. 
She  used  to  crawl  about  the  floor  of  the  shop 
workroom  and  under  the  table  and  chairs  like  a 
little  scavenger. 

"What  in  the  world  do  you  do  with  all  that 
truck,  child?"  asked  Aunt  Sophy.  "You  must 
have  barrels  of  it." 

Adele  stuffed  another  wisp  of  tulle  into  the 
pocket  of  her  pinafore.  "I  keep  it,"  she  said. 


16  HALF  PORTIONS 

When  she  was  ten  Adele  had  said  to  her  mother, 
"Why  do  you  always  say  'Poor  Sophy'?" 

"Because  Aunt  Sophy's  had  so  little  in  life. 
She  never  has  married,  and  has  always  worked." 

Adele  considered  that.  "If  you  don't  get 
married  do  they  say  you're  poor?" 

"Well— yes " 

"Then  I'll  get  married,"  announced  Adele.  A 
small,  dark,  eerie  child,  skinny  and  rather  foreign 
looking. 

The  boy,  Eugene,  had  the  beauty  which  should 
have  been  the  girl's.  Very  tall,  very  blond,  with 
the  straight  nose  and  wistful  eyes  of  the  Flora  of 
twenty  years  ago.  "If  only  Adele  could  have  had 
his  looks,"  his  mother  used  to  say.  "They're 
wasted  on  a  man.  He  doesn't  need  them  but  a 
girl  does.  Adele  will  have  to  be  well-dressed  and 
interesting.  And  that's  such  hard  work." 

Flora  said  she  worshipped  her  children.  And 
she  actually  sometimes  still  coquetted  heavily 
with  her  husband.  At  twenty  she  had  been  ad 
dicted  to  baby  talk  when  endeavouring  to  coax 
something  out  of  someone.  Her  admirers  had 
found  it  irresistible.  At  forty  it  was  awful.  Her 
selfishness  was  colossal.  She  affected  a  semi- 
invalidism  and  for  fifteen  years  had  spent  one  day  a 
week  in  bed.  She  took  no  exercise  and  a  great  deal 
of  baking  soda  and  tried  to  fight  her  fat  with 


THE  MATERNAL  FEMININE         17 

baths.  Fifteen  or  twenty  years  had  worked  a 
startling  change  in  the  two  sisters,  Flora  the 
beautiful,  and  Sophy  the  plain.  It  was  more 
than  a  mere  physical  change.  It  was  a  spiritual 
thing,  though  neither  knew  nor  marked  it.  Each 
had  taken  on  weight,  the  one,  solidly,  comfortably ; 
the  other,  flabbily,  unhealthily.  With  the  en 
croaching  fat  Flora's  small,  delicate  features 
seemed,  somehow,  to  disappear  in  her  face,  so 
that  you  saw  it  as  a  large  white  surface  bearing  in 
dentations,  ridges,  and  hollows  like  one  of  those 
enlarged  photographs  of  the  moon's  surface  as 
seen  through  a  telescope.  A  self-centred  face,  and 
misleadingly  placid.  Aunt  Sophy's  large,  plain 
features,  plumply  padded  now,  impressed  you  as 
indicating  strength,  courage,  and  a  great  human 
understanding. 

From  her  husband  and  her  children  Flora 
exacted  service  that  would  have  chafed  a  galley- 
slave  into  rebellion.  She  loved  to  lie  in  bed,  in  a 
lavender  bed-jacket  with  ribbons,  and  be  read  to 
by  Adele  or  Eugene,  or  her  husband.  They  all 
hated  it. 

"She  just  wants  to  be  waited  on,  and  petted, 
and  admired,"  Adele  had  stormed  one  day,  in  open 
rebellion,  to  her  Aunt  Sophy.  "She  uses  it  as  an 
excuse  for  everything  and  has,  ever  since  'Gene 
and  I  were  children.  She's  as  strong  as  an  ox." 


18  HALF  PORTIONS 

Not  a  very  ladylike  or  daughterly  speech,  but 
shockingly  true. 

Years  before  a  generous  but  misguided  woman 
friend,  coming  in  to  call,  had  been  ushered  in  to 
where  Mrs.  Baldwin  lay  propped  up  in  a  nest  of 
pillows. 

"Well,  I  don't  blame  you,"  the  caller  had  gushed. 
"If  I  looked  the  way  you  do  in  bed  I'd  stay  there 
forever.  Don't  tell  me  you're  sick,  with  all  that 
lovely  colour!" 

Flora  Baldwin  had  rolled  her  eyes  ceilingward. 
"Nobody  ever  gives  me  credit  for  all  my  suffering 
and  ill-health.  And  just  because  all  my  blood  is 
in  my  cheeks." 

Flora  was  ambitious,  socially,  but  too  lazy  to 
make  the  effort  necessary  for  success  in  that  direc 
tion. 

"I  love  my  family,"  she  would  say.  "They 
fill  my  life.  After  all,  that's  a  profession  in  itself — 
being  a  wife  and  mother." 

She  showed  her  devotion  by  taking  no  interest 
whatever  in  her  husband's  land  schemes;  by  for 
bidding  Eugene  to  play  football  at  school  for  fear 
he  might  be  injured;  by  impressing  Adele  with  the 
necessity  for  vivacity  and  modishness  because  of 
what  she  called  her  unfortunate  lack  of  beauty. 

"I  don't  understand  it,"  she  used  to  say  in  the 
child's  very  presence.  "Her  father's  handsome 


THE  MATERNAL  FEMININE         19 

enough,  goodness  knows;  and  I  wasn't  such  a 
fright  when  I  was  a  girl.  And  look  at  her!  Little* 
dark,  skinny  thing." 

The  boy  Eugene  grew  up  a  very  silent,  hand- 
some,  shy  young  fellow.  The  girl  dark,  vol 
uble,  and  rather  interesting.  The  husband,  more 
and  more  immersed  in  his  business,  was  absent 
from  home  for  long  periods;  irritable  after  some 
of  these  home-comings;  boisterously  high-spirited 
following  other  trips.  Now  growling  about  house 
hold  expenses  and  unpaid  bills;  now  urging  the 
purchase  of  some  almost  prohibitive  luxury. 
Any  one  but  a  nagging,  self-absorbed,  and  vain 
woman  such  as  Flora  would  have  marked  these 
unmistakable  signs.  But  Flora  was  a  taker,  not 
a  giver.  She  thought  herself  affectionate  because 
she  craved  affection  unduly.  She  thought  her 
self  a  fond  mother  because  she  insisted  on  having 
her  children  with  her,  under  her  thumb,  marking 
their  devotion  as  a  prisoner  marks  time  with  his 
feet,  stupidly,  shufflingly,  advancing  not  a  step. 

Sometimes  Sophy  the  clear-eyed  and  level 
headed,  seeing  this  state  of  affairs,  tried  to  stop  it. 

"You  expect  too  much  of  your  husband  and 
children,"  she  said  one  day,  bluntly,  to  her  sister. 

"I!"  Flora's  dimpled  hands  had  flown  to  her 
breast  like  a  wounded  thing.  "I!  You're 
crazy!  There  isn't  a  more  devoted  wife  and 


20  HALF  PORTIONS 

mother  in  the  world.  That's  the  trouble.  I  love 
them  too  much." 

"Well,  then,"  grimly,  "stop  it  for  a  change. 
That's  half  Eugene's  nervousness — your  fussing 
•over  him.  He's  eighteen.  Give  him  a  chance. 
You're  weakening  him.  And  stop  dinning  that 
society  stuff  into  Adele's  ears.  She's  got  brains, 
that  child.  Why,  just  yesterday,  in  the  work 
room,  she  got  hold  of  some  satin  and  a  shape  and 
turned  out  a  little  turban  that  Angle.  Hatton " 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  Angle  Hatton 
saw  my  Adele  working  in  your  shop!  Now,  look 
here,  Sophy.  You're  earning  your  living,  and  it's 
to  your  credit.  You're  my  sister.  But  I  won't 
have  Adele  associated  in  the  minds  of  my  friends 
with  your  hat  store,  understand.  I  won't  have  it. 
That  isn't  what  I  sent  her  away  to  an  expensive 
school  for.  To  have  her  come  back  and  sit  around 
a  millinery  workshop  with  a  lot  of  little,  cheap, 
shoddy  sewing  girls!  Now  understand,  I  won't 
have  it!  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  a 
mother.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  have 
suffered.  If  you  had  brought  two  children  into 
the  world " 

So  then,  it  had  come  about,  during  the  years 
between  their  childhood  and  their  youth,  that 
Aunt  Sophy  received  the  burden  of  their  confi 
dences,  their  griefs,  their  perplexities.  She  seemed, 


TEE  MATERNAL  FEMININE         21 

somehow,  to  understand  in  some  miraculous  way, 
and  to  make  the  burden  a  welcome  one. 

"Well,  now,  you  tell  Aunt  Sophy  all  about  it. 
Stop  crying,  Delia.  How  can  Aunt  Sophy  hear 
when  you're  crying!  That's  my  baby.  Now, 
then." 

This  when  they  were  children.  But  with  the 
years  the  habit  clung  and  became  fixed.  There 
was  something  about  Aunt  Sophy's  house — the 
old  frame  house  with  the  warty  stucco  porch.  For 
that  matter,  there  was  something  about  the  very 
shop  downtown,  with  its  workroom  in  the  rear, 
that  had  a  cozy,  homelike  quality  never  possessed 
by  the  big  Baldwin  house.  H.  Charnsworth 
Baldwin  had  built  a  large  brick  mansion,  in  the 
Tudor  style,  on  a  bluff  overlooking  the  Fox  River, 
in  the  best  residential  section  of  Chippewa.  It 
was  expensively  and  correctly  furnished.  The  hall 
consol  alone  was  enough  to  strik  a  preliminary 
chill  to  your  heart. 

The  millinery  workroom,  winter  days,  was  al 
ways  bright  and  warm  and  snug.  The  air  was  a 
little  close,  perhaps,  and  heavy,  but  with  a  not 
unpleasant  smell  of  dyes,  and  stuffs,  and  velvet, 
and  glue,  and  steam,  and  flatiron,  and  a  certain 
heady  scent  that  Julia  Gold,  the  head  trimmer, 
always  used.  There  was  a  sociable  cat,  white 
with  a  dark  gray  patch  on  his  throat  and  a  swipe 


22  HALF  PORTIONS 

of  it  across  one  flank  that  spoiled  him  for  style  and 
beauty  but  made  him  a  comfortable-looking  cat 
to  have  around.  Sometimes,  on  very  cold  days, 
or  in  the  rush  reason,  the  girls  would  not  go  home 
to  dinner  or  supper,  but  would  bring  their  lunches 
and  cook  coffee  over  a  little  gas  heater  in  the  cor 
ner.  Julia  Gold,  especially,  drank  quantities  of 
coffee.  Aunt  Sophy  had  hired  her  from  Chicago. 
She  had  been  with  her  for  five  years.  She  said 
Julia  was  the  best  trimmer  she  had  ever  had.  Aunt 
Sophy  often  took  her  to  New  York  or  Chicago  on 
her  buying  trips.  Julia  had  not  much  genius  for 
original  design,  or  she  would  never  have  been 
content  to  be  head  milliner  in  a  small-town  shop. 
But  she  could  copy  a  fifty-dollar  model  from 
memory  down  to  the  last  detail  of  crown  and  brim. 
It  was  a  gift  that  made  her  invaluable. 

The  boy,  Eugene,  used  to  like  to  look  at  Julia 
Gold.  Her  hair  was  very  black  and  her  face  was 
very  white,  and  her  eyebrows  met  in  a  thick,  dark 
line.  Her  face,  as  she  bent  over  her  work,  was 
sullen  and  brooding,  but  when  she  lifted  her  head 
suddenly,  in  conversation,  you  were  startled  by  a 
vivid  flash  of  teeth,  and  eyes,  and  smile.  Her 
voice  was  deep  and  low.  She  made  you  a  little 
uncomfortable.  Her  eyes  seemed  always  to  be 
asking  something.  Around  the  work  table,  morn 
ings,  she  used  to  relate  the  dream  she  had  had  the 


THE  MATERNAL  FEMININE         23 

night  before.  In  these  dreams  she  was  always 
being  pursued  by  a  lover.  "And  then  I  woke  up, 
screaming."  Neither  she  nor  the  sewing  girls 
knew  what  she  was  revealing  hi  these  confidences 
of  hers.  But  Aunt  Sophy,  the  shrewd,  somehow 
sensed  it. 

"You're  alone  too  much,  evenings.  That's 
what  comes  of  living  in  a  boarding  house.  You 
come  over  to  me  for  a  week.  The  change  will  do 
you  good,  and  it'll  be  nice  for  me,  too,  having 
somebody  to  keep  me  company." 

Julia  often  came  for  a  week  or  ten  days  at  a 
time.  Julia,  about  the  house  after  supper,  was 
given  to  those  vivid  splashy  kimonos  with  big 
flowers  embroidered  on  them.  They  made  her 
hair  look  blacker  and  her  skin  whiter  by  contrast. 
Sometimes  Eugene  or  Adele  or  both  would  drop 
in  and  the  four  would  play  bridge.  Aunt  Sophy 
played  a  shrewd  and  canny  game,  Adele  a  rather 
brilliant  one,  Julia  a  wild  and  disastrous  hand, 
always,  and  Eugene  so  badly  that  only  Julia  would 
take  him  on  as  a  partner.  Mrs.  Baldwin  never 
knew  about  these  evenings. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions  that  Aunt 
Sophy,  coming  unexpectedly  into  the  living  room 
from  the  kitchen  where  she  and  Adele  were  foraging 
for  refreshments  after  the  game,  beheld  Julia  Gold 
and  Eugene,  arms  clasped  about  each  other,  cheek 


24  HALF  PORTIONS 

to  cheek.  They  started  up  as  she  came  in  and 
faced  her,  the  woman  defiantly,  the  boy  bravely. 
Julia  Gold  was  thirty  (with  reservations)  at  that 
time,  and  the  boy  not  quite  twenty-one. 

"How  long?"  said  Aunt  Sophy,  quietly.  She 
had  a  mayonnaise  spoon  and  a  leaf  of  lettuce  in 
her  hand  at  the  time,  and  still  she  did  not  look 
comic. 

"I'm  crazy  about  her,"  said  Eugene.  "We're 
crazy  about  each  other.  We're  going  to  be  mar 
ried." 

Aunt  Sophy  listened  for  the  reassuring  sound  of 
Adele's  spoons  and  plates  in  the  kitchen.  She 
came  forward.  "Now,  listen "  she  began. 

"I  love  him,"  said  Julia  Gold,  dramatically. 
"I  love  him!" 

Except  that  it  was  very  white  and,  somehow, 
old  looking,  Aunt  Sophy's  face  was  as  benign  as 
always.  "Now,  look  here,  Julia,  my  girl.  That 
isn't  love  and  you  know  it.  I'm  an  old  maid,  but 
I  know  what  love  is  when  I  see  it.  I'm  ashamed 
of  you,  Julia.  Sensible  woman  like  you.  Hug 
ging  and  kissing  a  boy  like  that,  and  old  enough  to 
be  his  mother,  pretty  near." 

"Now,  look  here,  Aunt  Soph!  I'm  fond  of  you 

but  if  you're  going  to  talk  that  way Why, 

she's  wonderful.  She's  taught  me  what  it  means 
to  really " 


THE  MATERNAL  FEMININE        25 

"Oh,  my  land!"  Aunt  Sophy  sat  down,  look 
ing,  suddenly,  very  sick  and  old. 

And  then,  from  the  kitchen,  Adele's  clear  young 
voice:  "Heh!  What's  the  idea!  I'm  not  going 
to  do  all  the  work.  Where's  everybody?" 

Aunt  Sophy  started  up  again.  She  came  up  to 
them  and  put  a  hand — a  capable,  firm,  steadying 
hand  on  the  arm  of  each.  The  woman  drew  back 
but  the  boy  did  not. 

"Will  you  promise  me  not  to  do  anything  for  a 
week?  Just  a  week!  Will  you  promise  me?  Will 
you?" 

"Are  you  going  to  tell  Father?" 

"Not  for  a  week  if  you'll  promise  not  to  see  each 
other  in  that  week.  No,  I  don't  want  to  send  you 

away,  Julia,  I  don't  want  to You're  not  a  bad 

girl.  It's  just — he's  never  had — at  home  they 
never  gave  him  a  chance.  Just  a  week,  Julia. 
Just  a  week,  Eugene.  We  can  talk  things  over 
then." 

Adele's  footsteps  coming  from  the  kitchen. 

"Quick!" 

"I  promise,"  said  Eugene.   Julia  said  nothing. 

"Well,  really,"  said  Adele,  from  the  doorway, 
54  you're  a  nervy  lot,  sitting  around  while  I  slave  in 
the  kitchen.  'Gene,  see  if  you  can  open  the  olives 
with  this  fool  can  opener.  I  tried." 

There  is  no  knowing  what  she  expected  to  do 


26  HALF  PORTIONS 

in  that  week,  Aunt  Sophy;  what  miracle  she  meant 
to  perform.  She  had  no  plan  in  her  mind.  Just 
hope.  She  looked  strangely  shrunken  and  old, 
suddenly.  But  when,  three  days  later,  the  news 
came  that  America  was  to  go  into  the  war  she 
knew  that  her  prayers  were  answered. 

Flora  was  beside  herself.  "Eugene  won't  have 
to  go.  He  isn't  quite  twenty-one,  thank  God! 
And  by  the  time  he  is  it  will  be  over.  Surely." 
She  was  almost  hysterical. 

Eugene  was  in  the  room.  Aunt  Sophy  looked  at 
him  and  he  looked  at  Aunt  Sophy.  In  her  eyes  was 
a  question.  In  his  was  the  answer.  They  said 
nothing.  The  next  day  Eugene  enlisted.  In 
three  days  he  was  gone.  Flora  took  to  her  bed. 
Next  day  Adele,  a  faint,  unwonted  colour  marking 
her  cheeks,  walked  into  her  mother's  bedroom  and 
stood  at  the  side  of  the  recumbent  figure.  Her 
father,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  was  pacing 
up  and  down,  now  and  then  kicking  a  cushion 
that  had  fallen  to  the  floor.  He  was  chewing  a 
dead  cigar,  one  side  of  his  face  twisted  curiously 
over  the  cylinder  in  his  mouth  so  that  he  had  a 
sinister  and  crafty  look. 

"Charns worth,  won't  you  please  stop  ramping 
up  and  down  like  that !  My  nerves  are  killing  me. 
I  can't  help  it  if  the  war  has  done  something  or 
other  to  your  business.  I'm  sure  no  wife  could 


THE  MATERNAL  FEMININE         27 

have  been  more  economical  than  I  have.  Nothing 
matters  but  Eugene,  anyway.  How  could  he  do 
such  a  thing!  I've  given  my  whole  life  to  my 
children—" 

H.  Charnsworth  kicked  the  cushion  again  so  that 
it  struck  the  wall  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  room. 
Flora  drew  her  breath  in  between  her  teeth  as 
though  a  knife  had  entered  her  heart. 

Adele  still  stood  at  the  side  of  the  bed,  looking 
at  her  mother.  Her  hands  were  clasped  behind 
her,  too.  In  that  moment,  as  she  stood  there,  she 
resembled  her  mother  and  her  father  so  startlingly 
and  simultaneously  that  the  two,  had  they  been 
less  absorbed  in  their  own  affairs,  must  have  marked 
it. 

The  girl's  head  came  up,  stiffly.  "Listen.  I'm 
going  to  marry  Daniel  Oakley." 

Daniel  Oakley  was  fifty,  and  a  friend  of  her 
father's.  For  years  he  had  been  coming  to  the 
house  and  for  years  she  had  ridiculed  him.  She 
and  Eugene  had  called  him  Sturdy  Oak  because 
he  was  always  talking  about  his  strength  and 
endurance,  his  walks,  his  golf,  his  rugged  health; 
pounding  his  chest  meanwhile  and  planting  his 
feet  far  apart.  He  and  Baldwin  had  had  business 
relations  as  well  as  friendly  ones. 

At  this  announcement  Flora  screamed  and  sat 
up  in  bed.  H.  Charnsworth  stopped  short  in  his 


28  HALF  PORTIONS 

pacing  and  regarded  his  daughter  with  a  queer 
look;  a  concentrated  look,  as  though  what  she  had 
said  had  set  in  motion  a  whole  maze  of  mental 
machinery  within  his  brain. 

"When  did  he  ask  you?" 

"He's  asked  me  a  dozen  times.  But  it's  dif 
ferent  now.  All  the  men  will  be  going  to  war. 
There  won't  be  any  left.  Look  at  England  and 
France.  I'm  not  going  to  be  left."  She  turned 
squarely  toward  her  father,  her  young  face  set  and 
hard.  "You  know  what  I  mean.  You  know 
what  I  mean." 

Flora,  sitting  up  in  bed,  was  sobbing.  "I  think 
you  might  have  told  your  mother,  Adele.  What 
are  children  coming  to !  You  stand  there  and  say, 
Tm  going  to  marry  Daniel  Oakley.'  Oh,  I  am  so 
faint  .  .  .  all  of  a  sudden  .  .  .  get  the 
spirits  of  ammonia.  .  .  ." 

Adele  turned  and  walked  out  of  the  room.  She 
was  married  six  weeks  later.  They  had  a  regular 
pre-war  wedding — veil,  flowers,  dinner,  and  all. 
Aunt  Sophy  arranged  the  folds  of  her  gown  and 
draped  her  veil.  The  girl  stood  looking  at  herself 
in  the  mirror,  a  curious  half -smile  twisting  her  lips. 
She  seemed  slighter  and  darker  than  ever. 

"In  all  this  white,  and  my  veil,  I  look  just  like 
a  fly  in  a  quart  of  milk,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh. 
Then,  suddenly,  she  turned  to  her  aunt  who  stood 


TEE  MATERNAL  FEMININE         29 

behind  her  and  clung  to  her,  holding  her  tight, 
tight.  "I  can't!  "she  gasped.  "I  can't!  I  can't!" 

Aunt  Sophy  held  her  off  and  looked  at  her,  her 
eyes  searching  the  girl. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Delia?  Are  you  just 
nervous  or  do  you  mean  you  don't  want  to  marry 
him?  Do  you  mean  that?  Then  what  are  you 
marrying  for?  Tell  me!  Tell  your  Aunt  Sophy." 

But  Adele  was  straightening  herself  and  pulling 
out  the  crushed  folds  of  her  veil.  "To  pay  the 
mortgage  on  the  old  homestead,  of  course.  Just 
like  the  girl  in  .the  play."  She  laughed  a  little. 
But  Aunt  Sophy  did  not  laugh. 

"Now  look  here,  Delia.     If  you're " 

But  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Adele 
caught  up  her  flowers.  "It's  all  right,"  she  said. 

Aunt  Sophy  stood  with  her  back  against  the 
door.  "If  it's  money,"  she  said.  "It  is!  It  is, 
isn't  it!  Listen.  I've  got  money  saved.  It  was 
for  you  children.  I've  always  been  afraid.  I 
knew  he  was  sailing  pretty  close,  with  his  specula 
tions  and  all,  since  the  war.  He  can  have  it  all. 
It  isn't  too  late  yet.  Adele!  Delia,  my  baby." 

"Don't,  Aunt  Sophy.  It  wouldn't  be  enough, 
anyway.  Daniel  has  been  wonderful,  really.  Don't 
look  like  that.  I'd  have  hated  being  poor,  any 
way.  Never  could  have  got  used  to  it.  It  is 
ridiculous,  though,  isn't  it?  Like  one  of  those 


30  HALF  PORTIONS 

melodramas,  or  a  cheap  movie.  I  don't  mind. 
I'm  lucky,  really,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it. 
A  plain  little  black  thing  like  me." 

"But  your  mother " 

"Mother  doesn't  know  a  thing." 

Flora  wept  mistily  all  through  the  ceremony 
but  Adele  was  composed  enough  for  two. 

When,  scarcely  a  month  later,  Baldwin  came 
to  Sophy  Decker,  his  face  drawn  and  queer,  Sophy 
knew. 

"How  much?"  she  said. 

"Thirty  thousand  will  cover  it.  If  you've  got 
more  than  that " 

"I  thought  Oakley— Adele  said " 

"He  did,  but  he  won't  any  more,  and  this  thing's 
got  to  be  met.  It's  this  damned  war  that's  done  it. 
I'd  have  been  all  right.  People  got  scared.  They 
wanted  their  money.  They  wanted  it  in  cash." 

"Speculating  with  it,  were  you?" 

"Oh,  well,  a  woman  doesn't  understand  these 
business  deals." 

"No,  naturally,"  said  Aunt  Sophy,  "a  butterfly 
like  me." 

"Sophy,  for  God's  sake  don't  joke  now.  I  tell 
you  this  will  cover  it,  and  everything  will  be  all 
right.  If  I  had  anybody  else  to  go  to  for  the 
money  I  wouldn't  ask  you.  But  you'll  get  it  back. 
You  know  that." 


TEE  MATERNAL  FEMININE         31 

Aunt  Sophy  got  up,  heavily,  and  went  over  to 
her  desk.  "It  was  for  the  children,  anyway. 
They  won't  need  it  now." 

He  looked  up  at  that.  Something  hi  her  voice. 
"  Who  won't?  Why  won't  they?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  made  me  say  that.  I  had  a 
dream." 

"Eugene?" 

""Yes." 

"Oh,  well,  we're  all  nervous.  Flora  has  dreams 
every  night  and  presentiments  every  fifteen 
minutes.  Now,  look  here,  Sophy.  About  this 
money.  You'll  never  know  how  grateful  I  am. 
Flora  doesn't  understand  these  things  but  I  can 
talk  to  you.  It's  like  this " 

"I  might  as  well  be  honest  about  it,"  Sophy 
interrupted.  "I'm  doing  it,  not  for  you,  but  for 
Flora,  and  Delia — and  Eugene.  Flora  has  lived 
such  a  sheltered  life.  I  sometimes  wonder  if  she 
ever  really  knew  any  of  you.  Her  husband,  or  her 
children.  I  sometimes  have  the  feeling  that  Delia 
and  Eugene  are  my  children — were  my  children." 

When  he  came  home  that  night  Baldwin  told 
his  wife  that  old  Soph  was  getting  queer.  "She 
talks  about  the  children  being  hers,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  well,  she's  awfully  fond  of  them,"  Flora 
explained.  "And  she's  lived  her  little  narrow  life, 
with  nothing  to  bother  her  but  her  hats  and  her 


32  HALF  PORTIONS 

house.  She  doesn't  know  what  it  means  to  suffer 
as  a  mother  suffers — poor  Sophy." 

"Urn,"  Baldwin  grunted. 

When  the  official  notification  of  Eugene's  death 
came  from  the  War  Department  Aunt  Sophy  was 
so  calm  that  it  might  have  appeared  that  Flora 
had  been  right.  She  took  to  her  bed  now  in 
earnest,  did  Flora,  and  they  thought  that  her  grief 
would  end  in  madness.  Sophy  neglected  every 
thing  to  give  comfort  to  the  stricken  two. 

"How  can  you  sit  there  like  that!"  Flora  would 
rail.  "How  can  you  sit  there  like  that!  Even  if 
you  weren't  his  mother  surely  you  must  feel  some 
thing." 

"It's  the  way  he  died  that  comforts  me,"  said 
Aunt  Sophy. 

"  What  difference  does  that  make !  What  differ 
ence  does  that  make!" 

This  is  the  letter  that  made  a  difference  to  Aunt 
Sophy.  You  will  have  to  read  it  to  understand, 
though  you  are  likely  to  skip  letters  on  the  printed 
page.  You  must  not  skip  this. 

AMERICAN  RED  CROSS 

(CROIX  ROUGE  AMERICAINE) 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  BALDWIN  : 

I  am  sure  you  must  have  been  officially  notified,  by  now*  by 
the  U.  S.  War  Dept.  of  the  death  of  your  son  Lieut.  Eugene 
U.  Baldwin.  But  I  want  to  write  you  what  I  can  of  his  last 


THE  MATERNAL  FEMININE        33 

hones.  I  was  with  him  much  of  that  time  as  his  nurse.  I'm 
sure  it  must  mean  much  to  a  mother  to  hear  from  a  woman 
who  was  privileged  to  be  with  her  boy  at  the  last. 

Your  son  was  brought  to  our  hospital  one  night  badly 
gassed  from  the  fighting  in  the  Argonne  Forest.  Ordinarily  we 
do  not  receive  gassed  patients,  as  they  are  sent  to  a  special 
hospital  near  here.  But  two  nights  before  the  Germans  wrecked 
this  hospital,  so  many  gassed  patients  have  come  to  us. 

Your  son  was  put  in  the  officers'  ward  where  the  doctors 
who  examined  him  told  me  there  was  absolutely  no  hope  for 
him,  as  he  had  inhaled  the  gas  so  much  that  it  was  only  a  mat 
ter  of  a  few  hours.  I  could  scarcely  believe  that  a  man  so  big 
and  strong  as  he  was  could  not  pull  through. 

The  first  bad  attack  he  had,  losing  his  breath  and  nearly 
choking,  rather  frightened  him,  although  the  doctor  and  I 
were  both  with  him.  He  held  my  hand  tightly  in  his,  begging 
me  not  to  leave  him,  and  repeating,  over  and  over,  that  it  was 
good  to  have  a  woman  near.  He  was  propped  high  in  bed 
and  put  his  head  on  my  shoulder  while  I  fanned  him  until  he 
breathed  more  easily.  I  stayed  with  him  all  that  night, 
though  I  was  not  on  duty.  You  see,  his  eyes  also  were  badly 
burned.  But  before  he  died  he  was  able  to  see  very  well.  I 
stayed  with  him  every  minute  of  that  night  and  have  never 
seen  a  finer  character  than  he  showed  during  all  that  dreadful 
fight  for  life.  He  had  several  bad  sinking  attacks  that  night 
and  came  through  each  one  simply  because  of  his  great  will 
power  and  fighting  spirit.  After  each  attack  he  would  grip 
my  hand  and  say,  "Well,  we  made  it  that  time,  didn't  we, 
nurse?  And  if  you'll  only  stay  with  me  we'll  win  this  fight." 
At  intervals  during  the  night  I  gave  him  sips  of  black  coffee 
which  was  all  he  could  swallow.  Each  time  I  gave  it  to  him 
he  would  ask  me  if  I  had  had  some.  That  was  only  one  in 
stance  of  his  thoughtf ulness  even  in  his  suffering.  Toward 


34  HALF  PORTIONS 

morning  he  asked  me  if  he  was  going  to  die.  I  could  not  tell 
him  the  truth.  He  needed  all  his  strength.  I  told  him  he 
had  one  chance  in  a  thousand.  He  seemed  to  become  very 
strong  then,  and  sitting  bolt  upright  in  bed  and  shaking  his 
fist,  he  said :  "Then  by  the  Lord  I'll  fight  for  it ! "  We  kept 
him  alive  for  three  days,  and  actually  thought  we  had  won 
when  on  the  third  day.  .  .  . 

But  even  in  your  sorrow  you  must  be  very  proud  to  have 
been  the  mother  of  such  a  son.  .  .  . 

I  am  a  Wisconsin  girl — Madison.  When  this  is  over  and  I 
come  home  will  you  let  me  see  you  so  that  I  may  tell  you  more 
than  I  can  possibly  write? 

MARIAN  KING. 

It  was  in  March,  six  months  later,  that  Marian 
King  came.  They  had  hoped  for  it,  but  never 
expected  it.  And  she  came.  Four  people  were 
waiting  in  the  living  room  of  the  big  Baldwin  house 
overlooking  the  river.  Flora  and  her  husband, 
Adele  and  Aunt  Sophy.  They  sat,  waiting.  Now 
and  then  Adele  would  rise,  nervously,  and  go  to  the 
window  that  faced  the  street.  Flora  was  weeping 
with  audible  sniffs.  Baldwin  sat  in  his  chair 
frowning  a  little,  a  dead  cigar  in  one  corner  of  his 
mouth.  Only  Aunt  Sophy  sat  quietly,  waiting. 

There  was  little  conversation.  None  in  the  last 
five  minutes.  Flora  broke  the  silence,  dabbing 
at  her  face  with  her  handkerchief  as  she  spoke. 

"Sophy,  how  can  you  sit  there  like  that?  Not 
that  I  don't  envy  you.  I  do.  I  remember  I  used 


TEE  MATERNAL  FEMININE         35 

to  feel  sorry  for  you.  I  used  to  say,  Toor  Sophy.' 
But  you  unmarried  ones  are  the  happiest,  after 
all.  It's  the  married  woman  who  drinks  the  cup 
to  the  last  bitter  drop.  There  you  sit,  Sophy, 
fifty  years  old,  and  life  hasn't  even  touched  you. 
You  don't  know  how  cruel  life  is." 

Suddenly,  "There!"  said  Adele.  The  other 
three  in  the  room  stood  up  and  faced  the  door.  The 
sound  of  a  motor  stopping  outside.  Daniel  Oak 
ley's  hearty  voice:  "Well,  it  only  took  us  five 
minutes  from  the  station.  Pretty  good." 

Footsteps  down  the  hall.  Marian  King  stood 
in  the  doorway.  They  faced  her,  the  four — Bald 
win  and  Adele  and  Flora  and  Sophy.  Marian 
King  stood  a  moment,  uncertainly,  her  eyes  upon 
them.  She  looked  at  the  two  older  women  with 
swift,  appraising  glance.  Then  she  came  into  the 
room,  quickly,  and  put  her  two  hands  on  Aunt 
Sophy's  shoulders  and  looked  into  her  eyes  straight 
and  sure. 

"You  must  be  a  very  proud  woman,"  she  said. 
"You  ought  to  be  a  very  proud  woman." 


APRIL  25TH,  AS  USUAL 

m  JTRS.  HOSEA  C.  BREWSTER  always 
I  %  / 1  cleaned  house  in  September  and  April. 
X  T  A  She  started  with  the  attic  and  worked  her 
purifying  path  down  to  the  cellar  in  strict  accord 
ance  with  Article  I,  Section  1,  Unwritten  Rules 
for  House  Cleaning.  For  twenty-five  years  she 
had  done  it.  For  twenty-five  years  she  had  hated 
it — being  an  intelligent  woman.  For  twenty-five 
years,  towel  swathed  about  her  head,  skirt  pinned 
back,  sleeves  rolled  up — the  costume  dedi 
cated  to  house  cleaning  since  the  days  of  What's- 
Her-Name  mother  of  Lemuel  (see  Proverbs) — 
Mrs.  Brewster  had  gone  through  the  ceremony 
twice  a  year. 

Furniture  on  the  porch,  woollens  on  the  line, 
mattresses  in  the  yard — everything  that  could  be 
pounded,  beaten,  whisked,  rubbed,  flapped,  shaken, 
or  aired  was  dragged  out  and  subjected  to  one  or 
all  of  these  indignities.  After  which,  completely 
cowed,  they  were  dragged  in  again  and  set  in  their 
places.  Year  after  year,  in  attic  and  in  cellar, 
things  had  piled  up  higher  and  higher — useless 
things,  sentimental  things;  things  in  trunks; 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  37 

things  in  chests;  shelves  full  of  things  wrapped  up 
hi  brown-paper  parcels. 

And  boxes — oh,  above  all,  boxes:  pasteboard 
boxes,  long  and  flat,  square  and  oblong,  each  bear 
ing  weird  and  cryptic  pencillings  on  one  end; 
cryptic,  that  is,  to  any  one  except  Mrs.  Brewster 
and  you  who  have  owned  an  attic.  Thus  "H's 
Fshg  Tckl"  jabberwocked  one  long,  slim  box. 
Another  stunned  you  with  "Cur  Ted  Slpg  Pch." 
A  cabalistic  third  hid  its  contents  under  "Sip 
Cov  Pinky  Rm."  To  say  nothing  of  such  curt 
yet  intriguing  fragments  as  "Blk  Nt  Drs"  and 
"Sun  Par  Val."  Once  you  had  the  code  key  they 
translated  themselves  simply  enough  into  such 
homely  items  as  Hosey's  fishing  tackle,  canvas 
curtains  for  Ted's  sleeping  porch,  slip  covers  for 
Pinky's  room,  black  net  dress,  sun-parlour  val 
ance. 

The  contents  of  those  boxes  formed  a  com 
mentary  on  normal  American  household  life  as 
lived  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hosea  C.  Brewster,  of 
Winnebago,  Wisconsin.  Hosey's  rheumatism  had 
prohibited  trout  fishing  these  ten  years;  Ted  wrote 
from  Arizona  that  "the  liT  ol'  sky"  was  his  sleep 
ing-porch  roof  and  you  didn't  have  to  worry  out 
there  about  the  neighbours  seeing  you  in  your 
pyjamas;  Pinky's  rose-cretonne  room  had  lacked 
an  occupant  since  Pinky  left  the  Winnebago 


38  HALF  PORTIONS 

High  School  for  the  Chicago  Art  Institute,  thence 
to  New  York  and  those  amazingly  successful 
magazine  covers  that  stare  up  at  you  from  your 
table — young  lady,  hollow  chested  (she'd  need  to 
be  with  that  decolletage),  carrying  feather  fan. 
You  could  tell  a  Brewster  cover  at  sight,  without 
the  fan.  That  leaves  the  black  net  dress  and  the 
sun-parlour  valance.  The  first  had  grown  too 
tight  under  the  arms  (Mrs.  Brewster's  arms);  the 
second  had  faded. 

Now,  don't  gather  from  this  that  Mrs.  Brewster 
was  an  ample,  pie-baking,  ginghamed  old  soul 
who  wore  black  silk  and  a  crushed-looking  hat  with 
a  palsied  rose  atop  it.  Nor  that  Hosea  C.  Brew 
ster  was  spectacled  and  slippered.  Not  at  all. 
The  Hosea  C.  Brewsters,  of  Winnebago,  Wisconsin, 
were  the  people  you've  met  on  the  veranda  of  the 
Moana  Hotel  at  Honolulu,  or  at  the  top  of  Pike's 
Peak,  or  peering  into  the  restless  heart  of  Vesuvius. 
They  were  the  prosperous  Middle- Western  type  of 
citizen  who  runs  down  to  Chicago  to  see  the  new 
plays  and  buy  a  hat,  and  to  order  a  dozen  Wedg 
wood  salad  plates  at  Field's. 

Mrs.  Brewster  knew  about  Dunsany  and 
georgette  and  alligator  pears;  and  Hosea  Brewster 
was  in  the  habit  of  dropping  around  to  the  Elks' 
Club,  up  above  Schirmer's  furniture  store  on  Elm 
Street,  at  about  five  in  the  afternoon  on  his  way 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  39 

home  from  the  cold-storage  plant.  The  Brewster 
place  was  honeycombed  with  sleeping  porches  and 
sun  parlours  and  linen  closets,  and  laundry  chutes 
and  vegetable  bins  and  electric  surprises,  as  your 
well-to-do  Middle- Western  house  is  likely  to  be. 

That  house  had  long  ago  grown  too  large  for  the 
two  of  them — physically,  that  is.  But  as  the  big 
frame  house  had  expanded,  so  had  they — in  toler 
ance  and  understanding  and  humanness — until 
now,  as  you  talked  with  them,  you  felt  that  here 
was  room  and  to  spare  of  sun-filled  mental  cham 
bers,  and  shelves  well  stored  with  experience;  and 
pantries  and  bins  and  closets  for  all  your  worries 
and  confidences. 

But  the  attic!  And  the  cellar!  The  attic  was 
the  kind  of  attic  every  woman  longs  for  who  hasn't 
one  and  every  woman  loathes  who  has.  "If  I  only 
had  some  place  to  put  things  in!"  wails  the  first. 
And,  "If  it  weren't  for  the  attic  I'd  have  thrown 
this  stuff  away  long  ago,"  complains  the  second. 
Mrs.  Brewster  herself  had  helped  plan  it.  Hard 
wood  floored,  spacious,  light,  the  Brewster  attic 
revealed  to  you  the  social,  aesthetic,  educational, 
and  spiritual  progress  of  the  entire  family  as 
clearly  as  if  a  sociologist  had  charted  it. 

Take,  for  example  (before  we  run  down  to  the 
cellar  for  a  minute),  the  crayon  portraits  of  Gran'- 


40  HALF  PORTIONS 

ma  and  Gran 'pa  Brewster.  When  Ted  had  been  a 
junior  and  Pinky  a  freshman  at  the  Winnebago 
High  School  the  crayon  portraits  had  beamed 
down  upon  them  from  the  living-room  wall.  To 
each  of  these  worthy  old  people  the  artist  had 
given  a  pair  of  hectic  pink  cheeks.  Gran'ma 
Brewster  especially,  simpering  down  at  you  from 
the  labyrinthian  scrolls  of  her  sextuple  gold  frame, 
was  rouged  like  a  soubrette  and  further  embellished 
with  a  pair  of  gentian-blue  eyes  behind  steel-bowed 
specs.  Pinky — and  in  fact  the  entire  Brewster 
household — had  thought  these  massive  atrocities 
the  last  word  in  artistic  ornament.  By  the  time 
she  reached  her  sophomore  year,  Pinky  had  pre 
vailed  upon  her  mother  to  banish  them  to  the 
dining  room.  Then,  two  years  later,  when  the 
Chicago  decorator  did  over  the  living  room  and 
the  dining  room,  the  crayons  were  relegated  to  the 
upstairs  hall. 

Ted  and  Pinky,  away  at  school,  began  to 
bring  their  friends  back  with  them  for  the  vaca 
tions.  Pinky 's  room  had  been  done  over  in  cream 
enamel  and  rose-flowered  cretonne.  She  said  the 
chromos  in  the  hall  spoiled  the  entire  second  floor. 
So  the  gold  frames,  glittering  undimmed,  the 
cheeks  as  rosily  glowing  as  ever,  found  temporary 
resting  place  in  a  nondescript  back  chamber  known 
as  the  sewing  room.  Then  the  new  sleeping  porch 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  41 

was  built  for  Ted,  and  the  portraits  ended  their 
journeying  in  the  attic. 

One  paragraph  will  cover  the  cellar.  Sta 
tionary  tubs,  laundry  stove.  Behind  that,  bin  for 
potatoes,  bin  for  carrots,  bins  for  onions,  apples, 
cabbages.  Boxed  shelves  for  preserves.  And 
behind  that  Hosea  C.  Brewster's  bete  noir  and 
plaything,  tyrant  and  slave — the  furnace.  "She's 
eating  up  coal  this  winter,"  Hosea  Brewster  would 
complain.  Or:  "Give  her  a  little  more  draft, 
Fred."  Fred,  of  the  furnace  and  lawn  mower, 
would  shake  a  doleful  head.  "She  ain't  drawin' 
good.  I  do'  know  what's  got  into  her." 

By  noon  of  this  particular  September  day — a 
blue-and-gold  Wisconsin  September  day — Mrs. 
Brewster  had  reached  that  stage  in  the  cleaning  of 
the  attic  when  it  looked  as  if  it  would  never  be 
clean  and  orderly  again.  Taking  into  considera 
tion  Miz'  Merz  (Miz'  Merz  by-the-day,  you  under 
stand)  and  Gussie,  the  girl,  and  Fred,  there  was 
very  little  necessity  for  Mrs.  Brewster 's  official 
house-cleaning  uniform.  She  might  have  un 
pinned  her  skirt,  unbound  her  head,  rolled  down 
her  sleeves,  and  left  for  the  day,  serene  in  the  knowl 
edge  that  no  corner,  no  chandelier,  no  mirror,  no 
curlicue  so  hidden,  so  high,  so  glittering,  so  ornate 
that  it  might  hope  to  escape  the  rag  or  brush  of  one 
or  the  other  of  this  relentless  and  expert  crew. 


42  HALF  PORTIONS 

Every  year,  twice  a  year,  as  this  box,  that  trunk 
or  chest  was  opened  and  its  contents  revealed, 
Miz'  Merz  would  say:  "You  keepin*  this,  Miz' 
Brewster?" 

"That?  Oh,  dear,  yes!"  Or:  "Well— I  don't 
know.  You  can  take  that  home  with  you  if  you 
want  it.  It  might  make  over  for  Minnie." 

Yet,  why  in  the  name  of  all  that's  ridiculous  did 
she  treasure  the  funeral  wheat  wreath  in  the  walnut 
frame?  Nothing  is  more  passe  than  a  last  sum 
mer's  hat,  yet  the  leghorn  and  pink-cambric-rose 
thing  in  the  tin  trunk  was  the  one  Mrs.  Brewster 
had  worn  when  a  bride.  Then  the  plaid  kilted 
dress  with  the  black  velvet  monkey  jacket  that 
Pinky  had  worn  when  she  spoke  her  first  piece  at 
the  age  of  seven — well,  these  were  things  that  even 
the  rapacious  eye  of  Miz'  Merz  (by-the-day) 
passed  by  unbrightened  by  covetousness. 

The  smell  of  soap  and  water,  and  cedar,  and 
moth  balls,  and  dust,  and  the  ghost  of  a  perfumery 
that  Pinky  used  to  use  pervaded  the  hot  attic. 
Mrs.  Brewster,  head  and  shoulders  in  a  trunk,  was 
trying  not  to  listen  and  not  to  seem  not  to  listen 
to  Miz'  Merz's  recital  of  her  husband's  relations' 
latest  flagrancy. 

"' Families  is  nix,'  I  says.  'I  got  my  own 
fam'ly  to  look  out  fur,'  I  says.  Like  that.  '  Well,' 
s's  he,  'w'en  it  comes  to  that,9  s's  he,  'I  guess  I  got 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  43 

some '''     Punctuated  by  thumps,  spatterings, 

s washings,  and  much  heavy  breathing,  so  that  the 
sound  of  light  footsteps  along  the  second-floor  hall 
way,  a  young,  clear  voice  calling,  then  the  same 
footsteps,  fleeter  now,  on  the  attic  stairway,  were 
quite  unheard. 

Pinky's  arms  were  around  her  mother's  neck  and 
for  one  awful  moment  it  looked  as  if  both  were  to 
be  decapitated  by  the  trunk  lid,  so  violent  had 
been  Mrs.  Brewster's  start  of  surprise. 

Incoherent  little  cries,  and  sentences  unfinished: 

"  Pinky !  Why — my  baby !  We  didn't  get  your 
telegram.  Did  you " 

"No;  I  didn't.  I  just  thought  I Don't 

look  so  dazed,  mummy You're  all  smudged, 

too — what  in  the  world ! "  Pinky  straightened  her 
hat  and  looked  about  the  attic.  "Why,  mother! 
You're — you're  house  cleaning!"  There  was  a 
stunned  sort  of  look  on  her  face.  Pinky's  last 
visit  home  had  been  in  June,  all  hammocks,  and 
roses,  and  especially  baked  things,  and  motor  trips 
into  the  country. 

"Of  course.  This  is  September.  But  if  I'd 

known  you  were  coming Come  here  to  the 

window.  Let  mother  see  you.  Is  that  the  kind 
of  hat  they're — why,  it's  a  winter  one,  isn't  it? 
Already!  Dear  me,  I've  just  got  used  to  the 


44  HALF  PORTIONS 

angle  of  my  summer  one.  You  must  telephone 
father." 

Miz'  Merz,  damply  calicoed,  rose  from  a  corner 
and  came  forward,  wiping  a  moist  and  parboiled 
hand  on  her  skirt.  "Ha'  do,  Pinky.  Ain't  forgot 
your  old  friends,  have  you?  " 

"It's  Mrs.  Merz!"  Pinky  put  her  cool,  sweet 
fingers  into  the  other  woman's  spongy  clasp. 
"Why,  hello,  Mrs.  Merz!  Of  course  when 
there's  house  cleaning — I'd  forgotten  all  about 
house  cleaning — that  there  was  such  a  thing,  I 


mean." 


"It's  got  to  be  done, "replied Miz' Merz, severely. 

Pinky,  suddenly  looking  like  one  of  her  own 
magazine  covers  (in  tailor  clothes),  turned  swiftly 
to  her  mother.  "Nothing  of  the  kind,"  she  said, 
crisply.  She  looked  about  the  hot,  dusty,  littered 
room.  She  included  and  then  banished  it  all  with 
one  sweeping  gesture.  "Nothing  of  the  kind. 
This  is — this  is  an  anachronism." 

"Mebbe  so,"  retorted  Miz'  Merz  with  equal 
crispness.  "But  it's  got  to  be  cleaned  just  the 
same.  Yessir;  it's  got  to  be  cleaned." 

They  smiled  at  each  other  then,  the  mother  and 
daughter.  They  descended  the  winding  attic 
stairs  happily,  talking  very  fast  and  interrupting 
each  other. 

Mrs.  Brewster's  skirt  was  still  pinned  up.    Hep 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  45 

hair  was  bound  in  the  protecting  towel.  "You 
must  telephone  father.  No,  let's  surprise  him. 
You'll  hate  the  dinner — built  around  Miz  Merz; 
you  know — boiled.  Well,  you  know  what  a 
despot  she  is." 

It  was  hot  for  September,  in  Wisconsin.  As 
they  came  out  to  the  porch  Pinky  saw  that  there 
were  tiny  beads  of  moisture  under  her  mother's 
eyes  and  about  her  chin.  The  sight  infuriated 
her  somehow.  "Well,  really,  mother ! " 

Mrs.  Brewster  unpinned  her  skirt  and  smoothed 
it  down;  and  smiled  at  Pinky,  all  unconscious  that 
she  looked  like  a  plump,  pink  Sister  of  Mercy  with 
that  towel  bound  tightly  about  her  hair.  With 
a  swift  movement  Pinky  unpinned  the  towel,  un 
wound  it,  dabbed  with  it  tenderly  at  her  mother's 
chin  and  brow,  rolled  it  into  a  vicious  wad,  and 
hurled  it  through  the  open  doorway. 

"Now* just  what  does  that  mean?"  said  Mrs. 
Brewster,  equably.  "Take  off  your  hat  and  coat, 
Pinky,  but  don't  treat  them  that  way — unless 
that's  the  way  they're  doing  in  New  York.  Every 
thing  is  so  informal  since  the  war."  She  had  a 
pretty  wit  of  her  own,  Mrs.  Brewster. 

Of  course  Pinky  laughed  then,  and  kissed  her 
mother  and  hugged  her  hard.  "It's  just  that  it 
seems  so  idiotic — your  digging  around  in  an  attic 
in  this  day  and  age!  Why,  it's — it's "  Pinky 


46  HALF  PORTIONS 

could  express  herself  much  more  clearly  in  colours 
than  in  words.  "There  is  no  such  thing  as  an 
attic.  People  don't  clean  them  any  more.  I 
never  realized  before — this  huge  house.  It  has 
been  wonderful  to  come  back  to,  of  course.  But 
just  you  and  dad."  She  stopped.  She  raised  two 
young  fists  high  in  impotent  anger.  "Do  you  like 
cleaning  the  attic?" 

"Why,  no.     I  hate  it." 

"Then  why  in  the  world " 

"I've  always  done  it,  Pinky.  And  while  they 
may  not  be  wearing  attics  in  New  York,  we 
haven't  taken  them  off  in  Winnebago.  Come  on 
up  to  your  room,  dear.  It  looks  bare.  If  I'd 
known  you  were  coming — the  slip  covers " 

"Are  they  in  the  box  in  the  attic  labelled  'Sip 
Cov  Pinky  Rm'?"  She  succeeded  in  slurring  it 
ludicrously. 

It  brought  an  appreciative  giggle  from  Mrs. 
Brewster.  A  giggle  need  not  be  inconsistent  with 
fifty  years,  especially  if  one's  nose  wrinkles  up 
delightfully  in  the  act.  But  no  smile  curved  the 
daughter's  stern  young  lips.  Together  they  went 
up  to  Pinky 's  old  room  (the  older  woman  stopped 
to  pick  up  the  crumpled  towel  on  the  hall  floor). 
On  the  way  they  paused  at  the  door  of  Mrs. 
Brewster's  bedroom,  so  cool,  so  spacious,  all  soft 
grays  and  blues 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  47 

Suddenly  Pinky's  eyes  widened  with  horror. 
She  pointed  an  accusing  forefinger  at  a  large,  dark 
object  in  a  corner  near  a  window.  "That's  the 
old  walnut  desk! "  she  exclaimed. 

" I  know  it." 

The  girl  turned,  half  amused,  half  annoyed. 
"Oh,  mother  dear!  That's  the  situation  in  a  nut 
shell.  Without  a  shadow  of  doubt  there's  an 
eradicable  streak  of  black  walnut  in  your  gray- 
enamel  make-up." 

"Eradicable!  That's  a  grand  word,  Pinky. 
Stylish !  I  never  expected  to  meet  it  out  of  a  book. 
And,  fu'thermore,  as  Miz'  Merz  would  say,  I  didn't 
know  there  was  any  situation." 

"I  meant  the  attic.  And  it's  more  than  a 
situation.  It's  a  state  of  mind." 

Mrs.  Brewster  had  disappeared  into  the  depths 
of  her  clothes  closet.  Her  voice  sounded  muffled. 
"Pinky,  you're  talking  the  way  they  did  at  that 
tea  you  gave  for  father  and  me  when  we  visited 
New  York  last  winter."  She  emerged  with  a  cool- 
looking  blue  kimono.  "Here.  Put  this  on. 
Father'll  be  home  at  twelve-thirty,  for  dinner, 
you  know.  You'll  want  a  bath,  won't  you, 
dear?" 

"Yes.  Mummy,  is  it  boiled — honestly? — on  a 
day  like  this?" 

"With  onions,"  said  Mrs.  Brewster,  firmly 


48  HALF  PORTIONS 

Fifteen  minutes  later  Pinky,  splashing  in  a  cool 
tub,  heard  the  voice  of  Miz'  Merz  high-pitched 
with  excitement  and  a  certain  awful  joy:  "Miz* 
Brewster!  Oh,  Miz'  Brewster!  I  found  a  moth 
in  Mr.  Brewster's  winter  flannels ! " 

"Oh!"  in  choked  accents  of  fury  from  Pinky; 
and  she  brought  a  hard  young  fist  down  in  the 
water — spat! — so  that  it  splashed  ceiling,  hair,  and 
floor  impartially. 

Still,  it  was  a  cool  and  serene  young  daughter 
who  greeted  Hosea  Brewster  as  he  came  limping  up 
the  porch  stairs.  He  placed  the  flat  of  the  foot 
down  at  each  step  instead  of  heel  and  ball.  It 
gave  him  a  queer,  hitching  gait.  The  girl  felt  a 
sharp  little  constriction  of  her  throat  as  she  marked 
that  rheumatic  limp.  "It's  the  beastly  Wisconsin 
winters,"  she  told  herself.  Then,  darting  out  at 
him  from  the  corner  where  she  had  been  hiding: 
"S'prise!  S'prise!" 

His  plump  blond  face,  flushed  with  the  unwonted 
heat,  went  darkly  red.  He  dropped  his  hat.  His 
arms  gathered  her  in.  Her  fresh  young  cheek 
was  pressed  against  his  dear  prickly  one.  So  they 
stood  for  a  long  minute — close. 

"Need  a  shave,  dad." 

"Well,  gosh,  how  did  I  know  my  best  girl  was 
coming ! "  He  held  her  off.  "What's  the  matter, 
Pink?  Don't  they  like  your  covers  any  more?" 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  49 

"Not  a  thing,  Hosey.  Don't  get  fresh.  They're 
decorating  my  studio — you  know — plasterers  and 
stuff.  I  couldn't  work.  And  I  was  lonesome  for  you." 

Hosea  Brewster  went  to  the  open  doorway  and 
gave  a  long  whistle  with  a  little  quirk  at  the  end. 
Then  he  came  back  to  Pinky  in  the  wide-seated 
porch  swing.  "You  know,"  he  said,  his  voice 
lowered  confidentially,  "I  thought  I'd  take  mother 
to  New  York  for  ten  days  or  so.  See  the  shows, 
and  run  around  and  eat  at  the  dens  of  wickedness. 
She  likes  it  for  a  change." 

Pinky  sat  up,  tense.  "For  a  change?  Dad, 
I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  that.  Mother 
needs " 

Mrs  Brewster's  light  footstep  sounded  in  the 
hall.  She  wore  an  all-enveloping  gingham  apron. 
"How  did  you  like  your  surprise,  father?"  She 
came  over  to  him  and  kissed  the  top  of  his  head. 
"I'm  getting  dinner  so  that  Gussie  can  go  on  with 
the  attic.  Everything's  ready  if  you  want  to  come 
in.  I  didn't  want  to  dish  up  until  you  were  at  the 
table,  so's  everything  would  be  hot."  She  threw  a 
laughing  glance  at  Pinky. 

But  when  they  were  seated,  there  appeared  a 
platter  of  cold,  thinly  sliced  ham  for  Pinky,  and  a 
crisp  salad,  and  a  featherweight  cheese  souffle, 
and  iced  tea,  and  a  dessert  coolly  capped  with 
whipped  cream. 


50  HALF  PORTIONS 

"But,  mother,  you  shouldn't  have "  feebly. 

"There  are  always  a  lot  of  things  in  the  house. 
You  know  that.  I  just  wanted  to  tease  you." 

Father  Brewster  lingered  for  an  unwonted  hour 
after  the  midday  meal.  But  two  o'clock  found 
him  back  at  the  cold-storage  plant.  Pinky 
watched  him  go,  a  speculative  look  in  her  eyes. 

She  visited  the  attic  that  afternoon  at  four, 
when  it  was  again  neat,  clean,  orderly,  smelling  of 
soap  and  sunshine.  Standing  there  in  the  centre 
of  the  big  room,  freshly  napped,  smartly  coifed, 
blue-serged,  trim,  the  very  concentrated  essence  of 
modernity,  she  eyed  with  stern  deliberation  the 
funeral  wheat  wreath  in  its  walnut  frame;  the 
trunks;  the  chests;  the  boxes  all  shelved  and 
neatly  inscribed  with  their  "H's  Fshg  Tckl"  and 
"Blk  Nt  Drs." 

"Barbaric!"  she  said  aloud,  though  she  stood 
there  alone.  "Medieval!  Mad!  It  has  got  to 
be  stopped.  Slavery!"  After  which  she  went 
downstairs  and  picked  golden  glow  for  the  living- 
room  vases  and  scarlet  salvia  for  the  bowl  in  the 
dining  room. 

Still,  as  one  saw  Mrs.  Brewster 's  tired  droop  at 
supper  that  night,  there  is  no  denying  that  there 
seemed  some  justification  for  Pinky 's  volcanic 
remarks. 

Hosea  Brewster  announced,  after  supper,  that 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  51 

he  and  Fred  were  going  to  have  a  session  with  the 
furnace;  she  needed  going  over  in  September  before 
they  began  firing  up  for  the  winter. 

"I'll  go  down  with  you,"  said  Pinky. 

"No,  you  stay  up  here  with  mother.  You'll  get 
all  ashes  and  coal  dust." 

But  Pinky  was  firm.  "Mother's  half  dead. 
She's  going  straight  up  to  bed,  after  that, 
darned  old  attic.  I'll  come  up  to  tuck  you 
in,  mummy." 

And  though  she  did  not  descend  to  the  cellar 
until  the  overhauling  process  was  nearly  completed 
she  did  come  down  in  time  for  the  last  of  the  scene. 
She  perched  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  watched 
the  two  men,  overalled,  sooty,  tobacco- wreathed, 
and  happy.  When,  finally,  Hosea  Brewster 
knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  stubby  black 
pipe,  dusted  his  sooty  hands  together  briskly, 
and  began  to  peel  his  overalls,  Pinky  came 
forward. 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "Dad,  I  want  to 
talk  to  you." 

"Careful  there.  Better  not  touch  me.  I'm  all 
dirt.  G'night,  Fred." 

"  Listen,  dad.     Mother  isn't  well." 

He  stopped  then,  with  one  overall  leg  off 
and  the  other  on,  and  looked  at  her.  "Huh? 
What  d'you  mean — isn't  well?  Mother."  His 


52  HALF  PORTIONS 

mouth  was  open.  His  eyes  looked  suddenly 
strained. 

"  This  house — it's  killing  her.  She  could  hardly 
keep  her  eyes  open  at  supper.  It's  too  much  for 
her.  She  ought  to  be  enjoying  herself — like  other 
women.  She's  a  slave  to  the  attic  and  all  those 
huge  rooms.  And  you're  another." 

"Me?  "feebly. 

"Yes.  A  slave  to  this  furnace.  You  said  your 
self  to  Fred,  just  now,  that  it  was  all  worn  out,  and 
needed  new  pipes  or  something — I  don't  know 
what.  And  that  coal  was  so  high  it  would  be 
cheaper  using  dollar  bills  for  fuel.  Oh,  I  know  you 
were  just  being  funny.  But  it  was  partly  true. 
Wasn't  it?  Wasn't  it?" 

"  Yeh,  but  listen  here,  Paula."  He  never  called 
her  Paula  unless  he  was  terribly  disturbed. 
"About  mother — you  said ' 

"  You  and  she  ought  to  go  away  this  winter — not 
just  for  a  trip,  but  to  stay.  You" — she  drew  a 
long  breath  and  made  the  plunge — "y°u  ought  to 
give  up  the  house." 

"Give  up " 

"Permanently.  Mother  and  you  are  buried 
alive  here.  You  ought  to  come  to  New  York  to 
live.  Both  of  you  will  love  it  when  you  are  there 
for  a  few  days.  I  don't  mean  to  come  to  a  hotel. 
I  mean  to  take  a  little  apartment,  a  furnished 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  53 

apartment  at  first,  to  see  how  you  like  it — -two 
rooms  and  kitchenette,  like  a  playhouse." 

Hosey  Brewster  looked  down  at  his  own  big 
bulk,  then  around  the  great  furnace  room.  "Oh, 
but  listen " 

"No,  I  want  you  to  listen  first.  Mother's  worn 
out,  I  tell  you.  It  isn't  as  if  she  were  the  old- 
fashioned  kind;  she  isn't.  She  loves  the  theatres, 
and  pretty  hats,  and  shoes  with  buckles,  and 
lobster,  and  concerts." 

He  broke  in  again:  "Sure;  she  likes  'em  for  a 

change.  But  for  a  steady  diet Besides,  I've 

got  a  business  to  'tend  to.  My  gosh!  I've  got  a 
business  to " 

"You  know  perfectly  well  that  Wetzler  prac 
tically  runs  the  whole  thing — or  could,  if  you'd  let 
him."  Youth  is  cruel  like  that,  when  it  wants  its 
way. 

He  did  not  even  deny  it.  He  seemed  suddenly 
old.  Pinky 's  heart  smote  her  a  little.  "It's  just 
that  you've  got  so  used  to  this  great  barracks 
you  don't  know  how  unhappy  it's  making  you. 
Why,  mother  said  to-day  that  she  hated  it.  I 
asked  about  the  attic — the  cleaning  and  all — and 
she  said  she  hated  it." 

"Did  she  say  that,  Paula?" 

"Yes." 

He  dusted  his  hands  together,  slowly,  spiritlessly. 


54  HALF  PORTIONS 

His  eyes  looked  pained  and  dull.  "She  did,  h'm? 
You  say  she  did?  "  He  was  talking  to  himself,  and 
thinking,  thinking. 

Pinky,  sensing  victory,  left  him.  She  ran 
lighly  up  the  cellar  stairs,  through  the  first-floor 
rooms,  and  up  to  the  second  floor.  Her  mother's 
bedroom  door  was  open. 

A  little  mauve  lamp  shed  its  glow  upon  the  tired 
woman  in  one  of  the  plump,  gray-enamel  beds. 
"No,  I'm  not  sleeping.  Come  here,  dear.  What 
in  the  world  have  you  been  doing  in  the  cellar  all 
this  time?" 

"Talking  to  dad."  She  came  over  and  perched 
herself  on  the  side  of  the  bed.  She  looked  down 
at  her  mother.  Then  she  bent  and  kissed  her. 
Mrs.  Brewster  looked  incredibly  girlish  with  the 
lamp's  rosy  glow  on  her  face  and  her  hair,  warmly 
brown  and  profuse,  rippling  out  over  the  pillow. 
Scarcely  a  thread  of  gray  in  it.  "You  know, 
mother,  I  think  dad  isn't  well.  He  ought  to  go 
away." 

As  if  by  magic  the  youth  and  glow  faded  out  of 
the  face  on  the  pillow.  As  she  sat  up,  clutching 
her  nightgown  to  her  breast,  she  looked  suddenly 
pinched  and  old.  "What  do  you  mean,  Pinky! 
Father— but  he  isn't  sick.  He " 

"Not  sick.  I  don't  mean  sick  exactly.  But 
sort  of  worn  out.  That  furnace.  He's  sick  and 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  55 

tired  of  the  thing;  that's  what  he  said  to  Fred.  He 
needs  a  change.  He  ought  to  retire  and  enjoy  life. 
He  could.  This  house  is  killing  both  of  you. 
Why  in  the  world  don't  you  dose  it  up,  or  sell  it, 
and  come  to  New  York?" 

"  But  we  do.     We  did.     Last  winter " 

"I  don't  mean  just  for  a  little  trip.  I  mean  to 
live.  Take  a  little  two-room  apartment  in  one  of 
the  new  buildings — near  my  studio — and  relax. 
Enjoy  yourselves.  Meet  new  men  and  women. 
Live!  You're  in  a  rut — both  of  you.  Besides, 
dad  needs  it.  That  rheumatism  of  his,  with  these 
Wisconsin  winters 

"But  California — we  could  go  to  California 
for " 

"That's  only  a  stop-gap.  Get  your  little  place 
in  New  York  all  settled,  and  then  run  away  when 
ever  you  like,  without  feeling  that  this  great  hulk  of 
a  house  is  waiting  for  you.  Father  hates  it;  I 
know  it." 

"Did  he  ever  say  so?" 

"Well,  practically.  He  thinks  you're  fond  of  it. 
He " 

Slow  steps  ascending  the  stairs — heavy,  painful 
steps.  The  two  women  listened  in  silence. 
Every  footfall  seemed  to  emphasize  Pinky 's  words. 
The  older  woman  turned  her  face  toward  the  sound, 
her  lips  parted,  her  eyes  anxious,  tender. 


56  HALF  PORTIONS 

"How  tired  he  sounds,"  said  Pinky;  "and  old. 
And  he's  only — why,  dad's  only  fifty-eight." 

"Fifty-seven,"  snapped  Mrs.  Brewster,  sharply, 
protectingly. 

Pinky  leaned  forward  and  kissed  her.  "Good 
night,  mummy  dear.  You're  so  tired,  aren't  you  ?  " 

Her  father  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Good-night,  dear.  I  ought  to  be  tucking  you 
into  bed.  It's  all  turned  around,  isn't  it?  Bis 
cuits  and  honey  for  breakfast,  remember." 

So  Pinky  went  off  to  her  own  room  (sans  sip 
cov)  and  slept  soundly,  dreamlessly,  as  does  one 
whose  work  is  well  done. 

Three  days  later  Pinky  left.  She  waved  a 
good-bye  from  the  car  platform,  a  radiant,  electric, 
confident  Pinky,  her  work  well  done. 

"Au'voir!  The  first  of  November!  Every 
thing  begins  then.  You'll  love  it.  You'll  be  real 
New  Yorkers  by  Christmas.  Now,  no  changing 
your  minds,  remember." 

And  by  Christmas,  somehow,  miraculously, 
there  were  they,  real  New  Yorkers;  or  as  real  and 
as  New  York  as  any  one  can  be  who  is  living  in  a 
studio  apartment  (duplex)  that  has  been  rented 
(furnished)  from  a  lady  who  turned  out  to  be  from 
Des  Moines. 

When  they  arrived,  Pinky  had  four  apartmects 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  57 

waiting  for  their  inspection.  She  told  them  this 
in  triumph,  and  well  she  might,  it  being  the  winter 
after  the  war,  when  New  York  apartments  were  as 
scarce  as  black  diamonds  and  twice  as  costly. 

Father  Brewster,  on  hearing  the  price,  emitted  a 
long,  low  whistle  and  said:  "How  many  rooms 
did  you  say?" 

"Two — and  a  kitchenette,  of  course." 

"Well,  then,  all  I  can  say  is  the  furniture  ought 
to  be  solid  gold  for  that;  inlaid  with  rubies  and 
picked  out  with  platinum." 

But  it  wasn't.  In  fact,  it  wasn't  solid  anything, 
being  mostly  of  a  very  impermanent  structure  and 
style.  Pinky  explained  that  she  had  kept  the  best 
for  the  last.  The  thing  that  worried  Father 
Brewster  was  that,  no  matter  at  what  hour  of  the 
day  they  might  happen  to  call  on  the  prospective 
lessor,  that  person  was  always  feminine  and 
hatted.  Once  it  was  eleven  in  the  morning.  Once 
five  in  the  afternoon. 

"Do  these  New  York  women  wear  hats  in  the 
house  all  the  time?"  demanded  Hosea  Brewster, 
worriedly.  "I  think  they  sleep  in  'em.  It's  a 
wonder  they  ain't  bald.  Maybe  they  are.  May 
be  that's  why.  Anyway,  it  makes  you  feel  like  a 
book  agent." 

He  sounded  excited  and  tired.  "Now,  father!" 
said  Mrs.  Brewster,  soothingly. 


58  HALF  PORTIONS 

They  were  in  the  elevator  that  was  taking 
them  up  to  the  fourth  and  (according  to  Pinky) 
choicest  apartment.  The  building  was  what  is 
known  as  a  studio  apartment,  in  the  West  Sixties. 
The  corridors  were  done  in  red  flagstones,  with 
gray-tone  walls.  The  metal  doors  were  painted 

gray- 

Pinky  was  snickering.  "  Now  she'll  say :  '  Well, 
we've  been  very  comfortable  here. '  They  always 
do.  Don't  look  too  eager." 

"No  fear,"  put  in  Hosey  Brewster. 

"It's  really  lovely.  And  a  real  fireplace. 
Everything  new  and  good.  She's  asking  two 
hundred  and  twenty -five.  Offer  her  one  seventy- 
five.  She'll  take  two  hundred." 

"You  bet  she  will,"  growled  Hosea. 

She  answered  the  door— hatted;  hatted  in  henna, 
that  being  the  season's  chosen  colour.  A  small, 
dark  foyer,  overcrowded  with  furniture;  a  studio 
living  room,  bright,  high-ceilinged,  smallish;  one 
entire  side  was  window.  There  were  Japanese 
prints,  and  a  baby  grand  piano,  and  a  lot  of 
tables,  and  a  davenport  placed  the  way  they 
do  it  on  the  stage,  with  its  back  to  the  room 
and  its  arms  to  the  fireplace,  and  a  long  table 
just  behind  it,  with  a  lamp  on  it,  and  books,  and 
a  dull  jar  thing,  just  as  you've  see  it  in  the  second- 
act  library. 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  59 

Hosea  Brewster  twisted  his  head  around  and  up 
to  gaze  at  the  lofty  ceiling.  "Feel's  if  I  was 
standing  at  the  bottom  of  a  well,"  he  remarked. 

But  the  hatted  one  did  not  hear  him.  "No;  no 
dining  room,"  she  was  saying,  briskly.  "No,  in 
deed.  I  always  use  this  gate-legged  table.  You 
see?  It  pulls  out  like  this.  You  can  easily  seat 
six — eight,  in  fact." 

"Heaven  forbid!"  in  fervent  sotto  voce  from 
Father  Brewster. 

"It's  an  enormous  saving  in  time  and  labour." 

"The — kitchen!"  inquired  Mrs.  Brewster. 

The  hat  waxed  playful.  "You'll  never  guess 
where  the  kitchen  is!"  She  skipped  across  the 
room.  "You  see  this  screen?"  They  saw  it.  A 
really  handsome  affair,  and  so  placed  at  one  end  of 
the  room  that  it  looked  a  part  of  it.  "  Come  here." 
They  came.  The  reverse  side  of  the  screen  was 
dotted  with  hooks,  and  on  each  hook  hung  a  pot,  a 
pan,  a  ladle,  a  spoon.  And  there  was  the  tiny  gas 
range,  the  infinitesimal  ice  chest,  the  miniature 
sink.  The  whole  would  have  been  lost  in  one 
corner  of  the  Brewster 's  Winnebago  china  closet. 

"Why,  how — how  wonderful!"  breathed  Mrs. 
Brewster. 

"Isn't  it?  So  complete — and  so  convenient. 
I've  cooked  roasts,  steaks,  chops,  everything  right 
here.  It's  just  play." 


60  HALF  PORTIONS 

A  terrible  fear  seized  upon  Father  Brewster. 
He  eyed  the  sink  and  the  tiny  range  with  a  sus 
picious  eye.  "The  beds,"  he  demanded,  "where 
are  the  beds?" 

She  opened  the  little  oven  door  and  his  heart 
sank.  But,  "They're  upstairs,"  she  said.  "This 
is  a  duplex,  you  know." 

A  little  flight  of  winding  stairs  ended  in  a  bal 
cony.  The  rail  was  hung  with  a  gay  mandarin 
robe.  Two  more  steps  and  you  were  in  the  bed 
room — a  rather  breathless  little  bedroom,  pro 
fusely  rose-coloured,  and  with  whole  battalions  of 
photographs  in  flat  silver  frames  standing  about  on 
dressing  table,  shelf,  desk.  The  one  window 
faced  a  gray  brick  wall. 

They  took  the  apartment.  And  thus  began  a 
life  of  ease  and  gayety  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hosea  C. 
Brewster,  of  Winnebago,  Wisconsin. 

Pinky  had  dinner  with  them  the  first  night,  and 
they  laughed  a  great  deal,  what  with  one  thing  and 
another.  She  sprang  up  to  the  balcony,  and  let 
down  her  bright  hair,  and  leaned  over  the  railing, 
a  la  Juliet,  having  first  decked  Hosey  out  in  a 
sketchy  but  effective  Romeo  costume  consisting  of 
a  hastily  snatched  up  scarf  over  one  shoulder, 
Pinky's  little  turban,  and  a  frying  pan  for  a  lute. 
Mother  Brewster  did  the  Nurse,  and  by  the  time 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  61 

Hosea  began  his  limping  climb  up  the  balcony,  the 
turban  over  one  eye  and  the  scarf  winding  itself 
about  his  stocky  legs,  they  ended  by  tumbling  in  a 
heap  of  tearful  laughter. 

After  Pinky  left  there  came  upon  them,  in 
that  cozy  little  two-room  apartment,  a  feeling  of 
desolation  and  vastness,  and  a  terrible  loneliness 
such  as  they  had  never  dreamed  of  in  the  great 
twelve-room  house  in  Winnebago.  They  kept 
close  to  each  other.  They  toiled  up  the  winding 
stairs  together  and  stood  a  moment  on  the  balcony, 
feigning  a  light-heartedness  that  neither  of  them 
felt. 

They  lay  very  still  in  the  little  stuffy  rose- 
coloured  room,  and  the  street  noises  of  New  York 
came  up  to  them — a  loose  chain  flapping  against 
the  mud  guard  of  a  taxi;  the  jolt  of  a  flat-wheeled 
Eighth  Avenue  street  car;  the  roar  of  an  L  train; 
laughter;  the  bleat  of  a  motor  horn;  a  piano  in  the 
apartment  next  door,  or  upstairs,  or  down. 

She  thought,  as  she  lay  there,  choking,  of  the 
great,  gracious  gray-and-blue  room  at  home,  many- 
windowed,  sweet-smelling,  quiet.  Quiet! 

He  thought,  as  he  lay  there,  choking,  of  the 
gracious  gray -blue  room  at  home,  many- windowed, 
sweet -smelling,  quiet.  Quiet! 

Then,  as  he  had  said  that  night  in  September: 
"Sleeping,  mother?" 


62  HALF  PORTIONS 

"N-no.     Not  yet.     Just  dozing  off." 

"It's  the  strange  beds,  I  guess.  This  is  going  to 
be  great,  though.  Great!" 

"My,  yes!"  agreed  Mrs.  Brewster,  heartily. 

They  awoke  next  morning  unrefreshed.  Pa 
Brewster,  back  home  in  Winnebago,  always 
whistled  mournfully,  off  key,  when  he  shaved. 
The  more  doleful  his  tune  the  happier  his  wife 
knew  him  to  be.  Also,  she  had  learned  to  mark 
his  progress  by  this  or  that  passage  in  a  refrain. 
Sometimes  he  sang,  too  (also  off  key),  and  you 
heard  his  genial  roar  all  over  the  house.  The 
louder  he  roared,  and  the  more  doleful  the  tune,  the 
happier  his  frame  of  mind.  Milly  Brewster  knew 
this.  She  had  never  known  that  she  knew  it. 
Neither  had  he.  It  was  just  one  of  those  sub 
conscious  bits  of  marital  knowledge  that  make  for 
happiness  and  understanding. 

When  he  sang  "The  Dying  Cowboy's  Lament" 
and  came  to  the  passage,  "Oh,  take  me  to  the 
churchyard  and  lay  the  sod  o-o-over  me,"  Mrs. 
Brewster  used  to  say:  "Gussie,  Mr.  Brewster'll 
be  down  in  ten  minutes.  You  can  start  the  eggs." 

In  the  months  of  their  gay  life  in  Sixty-Seventh 
Street  Hosey  Brewster  never  once  sang  "The 
Dying  Cowboy's  Lament,"  nor  whistled  "In  the 
Sweet  By-and-By."  No;  he  whistled  not  at  all,  or 


APRIL  25tk,  AS  USUAL  63 

when  he  did,  gay  bits  of  jazz  heard  at  the  theatre 
or  in  a  restaurant  the  night  before.  He  deceived 
no  one,  least  of  all  himself.  Sometimes  his  voice 
would  trail  off  into  nothingness,  but  he  would 
catch  the  tune  and  toss  it  up  again,  heavily,  as 
though  it  were  a  physical  weight. 

Theatres!  Music!  Restaurants!  Teas! 
Shopping!  The  gay  life! 

"Enjoying   yourself,    Milly?"    he    would    say* 

"Time  of  my  life,  father." 

She  had  her  hair  dressed  in  those  geometrical 
undulations  without  which  no  New  York  audience 
feels  itself  clothed.  They  saw  Pinky  less  fre 
quently  as  time  went  on  and  her  feeling  of  respon 
sibility  lessened.  Besides,  the  magazine  covers 
took  most  of  her  day.  She  gave  a  tea  for  her  father 
and  mother  at  her  own  studio,  and  Mrs.  Brew- 
ster's  hat,  slippers,  gown,  and  manner  equalled  in 
line,  style,  cut,  and  texture  those  of  any  other 
woman  present,  which  rather  surprised  her  until 
she  had  talked  to  five  or  six  of  them. 

She  and  Hosey  drifted  together  and  compared 
notes.  "Say,  Milly,"  he  confided,  "they're  all 
from  Wisconsin — or  approximately;  Michigan,  and 
Minnesota,  and  Iowa,  and  around.  Par's  I  can 
make  out  there's  only  one  New  Yorker,  really,  in 
the  whole  caboodle  of  'em." 

"Which  one?*' 


64  HALF  PORTIONS 

"That  kind  of  plain  little  one  over  there — 
sensible  looking,  with  the  blue  suit.  I  was  talking 
to  her.  She  was  born  right  here  in  New  York,  but 
she  doesn't  live  here — that  is,  not  in  the  city. 
Lives  in  some  place  in  the  country,  in  a  house." 

A  sort  of  look  came  into  Mrs.  Brewster's  eyes. 
" Is  that  so?  I'd  like  to  talk  to  her,  Hosey.  Take 
me  over." 

She  did  talk  to  the  quiet  little  woman  in  the 
plain  blue  suit.  And  the  quiet  little  woman  said: 
"  Oh,  dear,  yes ! "  She  ignored  her  r's  f ascinatingly, 
as  New  Yorkers  do.  "We  live  in  Connecticut. 
You  see,  you  Wisconsin  people  have  crowded  us 
out  of  New  York;  no  breathing  space.  Besides, 
how  can  one  live  here?  I  mean  to  say — live. 
And  then  the  children — it's  no  place  for  children, 
grown  up  or  otherwise.  I  love  it — oh,  yes,  indeed. 
I  love  it.  But  it's  too  difficult." 

Mrs.  Brewster  defended  it  like  a  true  Westerner. 
"But  if  you  have  just  a  tiny  apartment,  with  a 
kitchenette " 

The  New  York  woman  laughed.  There  was 
nothing  malicious  about  her.  But  she  laughed. 
"I  tried  it.  There's  one  corner  of  my  soul  that's 
still  wrinkled  from  the  crushing.  Everything  in  a 
heap.  Not  to  speak  of  the  slavery  of  it.  That — 
that  deceitful,  lying  kitchenette." 

This  was  the  first  woman  who  Mrs.  Brewster 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  65 

had  talked  to — really  talked  to — since  leaving 
Winnebago.  And  she  liked  women.  She  missed 
them.  At  first  she  had  eyed  wonderingly,  specula- 
tively,  the  women  she  saw  on  Fifth  Avenue. 
Swathed  luxuriously  in  precious  pelts,  marvellously 
coifed  and  hatted,  wearing  the  frailest  of  boots  and 
hose,  exhaling  a  mysterious,  heady  scent,  they 
were  more  like  strange,  exotic  birds  than  women. 
The  clerks  in  the  shops,  too — they  were  so  re 
mote,  so  contemptuous.  When  she  went  into 
Gerretson's,  back  home,  Nellie  Monahan  was 
likely  to  say:  "You've  certainly  had  a  lot  of 
wear  out  of  that  blue,  Mrs.  Brewster.  Let's  see, 
you've  had  it  two — three  years  this  spring?  My 
land !  Let  me  show  you  our  new  taupes." 

Pa  Brewster  had  taken  to  conversing  with  the 
doorman.  That  adamantine  individual,  unac 
customed  to  being  addressed  as  a  human  being, 
was  startled  at  first,  surly  and  distrustful.  But  he 
mellowed  under  Hosey's  simple  and  friendly 
advances.  They  became  quite  pals,  these  two — 
perhaps  two  as  lonely  men  as  you  could  find  in  all 
lonely  New  York. 

"I  guess  you  ain't  a  New  Yorker,  huh?"  Mike 
said. 

"Me?    No." 

"TV  most  of  the  folks  in  th'  buildin'  ain't/* 


66  HALF  PORTIONS 

"Ain't!"  Hosea  Brewster  was  startled  into  it. 
"They're  artists,  aren't  they?  Most  of  'em?" 

"No!  Out-of-town  folks,  mostly,  like  you. 
West — Iowa  an'  Californy  an'  around  there. 
Livin'  here,  though.  Seem  t'  like  it  better'n 
where  they  come  from.  I  dunno." 

Hosey  Brewster  took  to  eying  them  as  Mrs. 
Brewster  had  eyed  the  women.  He  wondered 
about  them,  these  tight,  trim  men,  rather  short  of 
breath,  buttoned  so  snugly  into  their  shining 
shoes  and  their  tailored  clothes,  with  their  necks 
bulging  in  a  fold  of  fat  above  the  back  of  their 
white  linen  collars.  He  knew  that  he  would  never 
be  like  them.  It  wasn't  his  square-toed  shoes  that 
made  the  difference,  or  his  gray  hat,  or  his  baggy 
trousers.  It  was  something  inside  him — some 
thing  he  lacked,  he  thought.  It  never  occurred  to 
him  that  it  was  something  he  possessed  that  they 
did  not. 

"Enjoying  yourself,  Milly?" 

"I  should  say  I  am,  father." 

"  That's  good.  No  housework  and  responsibility 
to  this,  is  there?" 

"It's  play." 

She  hated  the  toy  gas  stove,  and  the  tiny  ice 
chest,  and  the  screen  pantry.  All  her  married  life 
she  had  kept  house  in  a  big,  bounteous  way: 
apples  in  barrels;  butter  in  firkins;  flour  in  sacks; 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  62 

eggs  in  boxes;  sugar  in  bins;  cream  in  crocks. 
Sometimes  she  told  herself,  bitterly,  that  it  was 
easier  to  keep  twelve  rooms  tidy  and  habitable  than 
one  combination  kitchen-dining-and-living  room. 

"Chops  taste  good,  Hosey?" 

"Grand.  But  you  oughtn't  to  be  cooking 
around  like  this.  We'll  eat  out  to-morrow  night 
somewhere,  and  go  to  a  show/' 

"You're  enjoying  it,  aren't  you,  Hosey,  h'm?" 

"It's  the  life,  mother !    It's  the  life ! " 

His  ruddy  colour  began  to  fade.  He  took  to 
haunting  department  store  kitchen  ware  sections. 
He  would  come  home  with  a  new  kind  of  cream 
whipper,  or  a  patent  device  for  the  bathroom.  He 
would  tinker  happily  with  this,  driving  a  nail, 
adjusting  a  screw.  At  such  times  he  was  even 
known  to  begin  to  whistle  some  scrap  of  a  doleful 
tune  such  as  he  used  to  hum.  But  he  would 
change,  quickly,  into  something  lively.  The  price 
of  butter,  eggs,  milk,  cream,  and  the  like  horrified 
his  Wisconsin  cold-storage  sensibilities.  He  used 
often  to  go  down  to  Fulton  Market  before  daylight 
and  walk  about  among  the  stalls  and  shops,  piled 
with  tons  of  food  of  all  kinds.  He  would  talk  to 
the  marketmen,  and  the  buyers  and  grocers,  and 
come  away  feeling  almost  happy  for  a  time. 

Then,  one  day,  with  a  sort  of  shock,  he  remem- 


68  HALF  PORTIONS 

bered  a  farmer  he  had  known  back  home  in  Winne- 
bago.  He  knew  the  farmers  for  miles  around, 
naturally,  in  his  business.  This  man  had  been  a 
steady  butter-and-egg  acquaintance,  one  of  the 
wealthy  farmers  in  that  prosperous  Wisconsin 
farming  community.  For  his  family's  sake  he  had 
moved  into  town,  a  ruddy,  rufous-bearded,  clump 
ing  fellow,  intelligent,  kindly.  They  had  sold  the 
farm  with  a  fine  profit  and  had  taken  a  box-like 
house  on  Franklin  Street.  He  had  nothing  to  do 
but  enjoy  himself.  You  saw  him  out  on  the  porch 
early,  very  early  summer  mornings. 

You  saw  him  ambling  about  the  yard,  poking  at 
a,  weed  here,  a  plant  there.  A  terrible  loneliness 
was  upon  him;  a  loneliness  for  the  soil  he  had 
deserted.  And  slowly,  resistlessly,  the  soil  pulled 
at  him  with  its  black  strength  and  its  green  tendrils 
down,  down,  until  he  ceased  to  struggle  and  lay 
there  clasped  gently  to  her  breast,  the  mistress  he 
had  thought  to  desert  and  who  had  him  again  at 
last,  and  forever. 

"I  don't  know  what  ailed  him,"  his  widow  had 
said,  weeping.  "He  just  seemed  to  kind  of  pine 
away." 

It  was  one  morning  in  April — one  soft,  golden 
April  morning — when  this  memory  had  struck 
Hosey  Brewster.  He  had  been  down  at  Fulton 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  69 

> 
Market.     Something  about  the  place — the  dewy 

fresh  vegetables,  the  crates  of  eggs,  the  butter,  the 
cheese — had  brought  such  a  surge  of  homesickness 
over  him  as  to  amount  to  an  actual  nausea.  Riding 
uptown  in  the  Subway  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of 
himself  in  a  slot-machine  mirror.  His  face  was 
pale  and  somehow  shrunken.  He  looked  at  his 
hands.  The  skin  hung  loose  where  the  little  pads 
of  fat  had  plumped  them  out. 

"Gosh!  "he  said.     "Gosh,  I " 

He  thought,  then,  of  the  red-faced  farmer  who 
used  to  come  clumping  into  the  cold-storage  ware 
house  in  his  big  boots  and  his  buffalo  coat.  A 
great  fear  swept  over  him  and  left  him  weak  and 
sick. 

The  chill  grandeur  of  the  studio-building  foyer 
stabbed  him.  The  glittering  lift  made  him  dizzy, 
somehow,  this  morning.  He  shouldn't  have  gone 
out  without  some  breakfast  perhaps.  He  walked 
down  the  flagged  corridor  softly;  turned  the  key 
ever  so  cautiously.  She  might  still  be  sleeping. 
He  turned  the  knob  gently,  gently;  tiptoed  in  and, 
turning,  fell  over  a  heavy  wooden  object  that  lay 
directly  hi  his  path  in  the  dim  little  hall. 

A  barked  shin.     A  good,  round  oath. 

"Hosey!  What's  the  matter?  What "  She 

came  running  to  him.  She  led  him  into  the 
bright  front  room. 


70  HALF  PORTIONS 

"Yvhat  was  that  thing?  A  box  or  some 
thing,  right  there  in  front  of  the  door.  What 
the " 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,  Hosey.  You  sometimes 
have  breakfast  downtown.  I  didn't  know " 

Something  in  her  voice — he  stopped  rubbing  the 
injured  shin  to  look  up  at  her.  Then  he  straight 
ened  slowly,  his  mouth  ludicrously  open.  Her 
head  was  bound  in  a  white  towel.  Her  skirt  was 
pinned  back.  Her  sleeves  were  rolled  up.  Chairs, 
tables,  rugs,  ornaments,  were  huddled  in  a  promis 
cuous  heap.  Mrs.  Hosea  C.  Brewster  was  cleaning 
house. 

"Milly!"  he  began,  sternly.  "And  that's  just 
the  thing  you  came  here  to  get  away  from.  If 
Pinky- 

"I  didn't  mean  to,  father.  But  when  I  got  up 
this  morning  there  was  a  letter — a  letter  from  the 
woman  who  owns  this  apartment,  you  know. 
She  asked  if  I'd  go  to  the  hall  closet — the  one  she 
reserved  for  her  own  things,  you  know — and  unlock 
it,  and  get  out  a  box  she  told  me  about,  and  have 
the  hall  boy  express  it  to  her.  And  I  did,  and — 
look!" 

Limping  a  little  he  followed  her.  She  turned  on 
the  light  that  hung  in  the  closet.  Boxes — paste 
board  boxes — each  one  bearing  a  cryptic  pencilling 
on  the  end  that  stared  out  at  you.  "Drp  Stud 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  71 

Win,"  said  one;  "Sum  Sip  Cov  Bedrm,"  another; 
"Toil.  Set  &  Pic  Frms." 

Mrs.  Brewster  turned  to  her  husband,  almost 
shamefacedly,  and  yet  with  a  little  air  of  defiance. 
"It — I  don't  know — it  made  me — not  homesick, 
Hosey.  Not  homesick,  exactly;  but — well,  I 
guess  I'm  not  the  only  woman  with  a  walnut  streak 
in  her  modern  make-up.  Here's  the  woman — she 
came  to  the  door  with  her  hat  on,  and  yet 

Truth — blinding,  white-hot  truth — burst  in  upon 
him.  "Mother,"  he  said — and  he  stood  up,  sud 
denly  robust,  virile,  alert — "  mother,  let's  go  home." 

Mechanically  she  began  to  unpin  the  looped- 
back  skirt.  "When?" 

"Now." 

"But,  Hosey!  Pinky— this  flat— until 
June- 

"Now!  Unless  you  want  to  stay.  Unless  you 
like  it  here  in  this — this  make-believe,  double- 
barrelled,  duplex  do-funny  of  a  studio  thing. 
Let's  go  home,  mother.  Let's  go  home — and 
breathe." 

In  Wisconsin  you  are  likely  to  find  snow  in 
April — snow  or  slush.  The  Brewsters  found  both. 
Yet  on  their  way  up  from  the  station  in  'Gene 
Buck's  flivver  taxi  they  beamed  out  at  it  as  if  it 
were  a  carpet  of  daisies. 

At  the  corner  of  Elm  and  Jackson  streets  Hosey 


72  HALF  PORTIONS 

Brewster  stuck  his  head  out  of  the  window. 
"  Stop  here  a  minute,  will  you,  'Gene?  " 

They  stopped  in  front  of  Hengel's  meat  market, 
and  Hosey  went  in.  Mrs.  Brewster  leaned  back 
without  comment. 

Inside  the  shop.  "  Well,  I  see  you're  back  from 
the  East,"  said  Aug  Hengel. 

"Yep." 

"We  thought  you'd  given  us  the  go-by,  you 
stayed  away  so  long." 

"No,  sir-ree!  Say,  Aug,  give  me  that  piece  of 
bacon — the  big  piece.  And  send  me  up  some 
corned  beef  to-morrow  for  corned  beef  and  cab 
bage.  I'll  take  a  steak  along  for  to-night.  Oh, 
about  four  pounds.  That's  right." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  nothing  less  than  a  side  of 
beef  could  take  out  of  his  mouth  the  taste  of  those 
fiddling  little  lamb  chops  and  the  restaurant  fare  of 
the  past  six  months. 

All  through  the  winter  Fred  had  kept  up  a  little 
heat  in  the  house,  with  an  eye  to  frozen  water 
pipes.  But  there  was  a  chill  upon  the  place  as 
they  opened  the  door  now.  It  was  late  afternoon. 
The  house  was  very  still,  with  the  stillness  of  a 
dwelling  that  has  long  been  uninhabited.  The 
two  stood  there  a  moment,  peering  into  the 
darkened  rooms.  Then  Hosea  Brewster  strode 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  73 

forward,  jerked  up  this  curtain,  that  curtain  with  a 
sharp  snap,  flap!  He  stamped  his  feet  to  rid  them 
of  slush.  He  took  off  his  hat  and  threw  it  high  in 
the  air  and  opened  his  arms  wide  and  emitted  a 
whoop  of  sheer  joy  and  relief. 

* '  Welcome  home !     Home ! ' ' 

She  clung  to  him.  "Oh,  Hosey,  isn't  it  wonder 
ful?  How  big  it  looks !  Huge ! " 

"Land,  yes."  He  strode  from  hall  to  dining 
room,  from  kitchen  to  library.  "I  know  how  a 
jack-in-the-box  feels  when  the  lid's  opened.  No 
wonder  it  grins  and  throws  out  its  arms." 

They  did  little  talking  after  that.  By  five 
o'clock  he  was  down  in  the  cellar.  She  heard  him 
making  a  great  sound  of  rattling  and  bumping  and 
shaking  and  pounding  and  shovelling.  She  smelled 
the  acrid  odour  of  his  stubby  black  pipe. 

"Hosey!" — from  the  top  of  the  cellar  stairs. 
"Hosey,  bring  up  a  can  of  preserves  when  you 
come." 

"What?" 

"  Can  of  preserves." 

"What  kind?" 

"Any  kind  you  like." 

"Can  I  have  two  kinds?" 

He  brought  up  quince  marmalade  and  her 
choicest  damson  plums.  He  put  them  down  on 
the  kitchen  table  and  looked  around,  spatting  his 


74  HALF  PORTIONS 

hands  together  briskly  to  rid  them  of  dust.  "Sh's 
burning  pretty  good  now.  That  Fred!  Don't 
any  more  know  how  to  handle  a  boiler  than  a  baby 
does.  Is  the  house  getting  warmer?  " 

He  clumped  into  the  dining  room,  through  the 
butler's  pantry,  but  he  was  back  again  in  a  wink, 
his  eyes  round.  "Why,  say,  mother!  You've  got 
out  the  best  dishes,  and  the  silver,  and  the  candles, 
and  all.  And  the  tablecloth  with  the  do-dads  on 
it.  Why " 

"I  know  it."  She  opened  the  oven  door,  took 
out  a  pan  of  biscuits  and  slid  it  deftly  to  one  side. 
"It  seems  as  if  I  can't  spread  enough.  I'm  going 
to  use  the  biggest  platters,  and  I've  put  two  extra 
boards  in  the  table.  It's  big  enough  to  seat  ten. 
I  want  everything  big,  somehow.  I've  cooked 
enough  potatoes  for  a  regiment,  and  I  know  it's 
wasteful,  and  I  don't  care.  I'll  eat  in  my  kitchen 
apron,  if  you'll  keep  on  your  overalls.  Come 


on." 


He  cut  into  the  steak — a  great,  thick  slice.  He 
knew  she  could  never  eat  it,  and  she  knew  she 
could  never  eat  it.  But  she  did  eat  it  all,  ecsta 
tically.  And  in  a  sort  of  ecstatic  Nirvana  the 
quiet  and  vastness  and  peace  of  the  big  old  frame 
house  settled  down  upon  them. 

The  telephone  in  the  hall  rang  startlingly,  un 
expectedly. 


APRIL  25th,  AS  USUAL  75 

"Let  me  go,  Milly." 

"But  who  in  the  world!  Nobody  knows 
we're " 

He  was  at  the  telephone.  "Who?  Who? 
Oh."  He  turned:  "It's  Miz'  Merz.  She  says 
her  little  Minnie  went  by  at  six  and  saw  a  light  in 
the  house.  She-  Hello!  What?  .  .  . 
She  says  she  wants  to  know  if  she's  to  save  time  for 
you  at  the  end  of  the  month  for  the  April  cleaning." 

Mrs.  Brewster  took  the  receiver  from  him: 
"The  twenty-fifth,  as  usual,  Miz'  Merz.  The 
twenty-fifth,  as  usual.  The  attic  must  be  a  sight." 


OLD  LADY  MANDLE 

OLD  lady  Mandle  was  a  queen.  Her 
demesne,  undisputed,  was  a  six-room  flat 
on  South  Park  Avenue,  Chicago.  Her 
faithful  servitress  was  Anna,  an  ancient  person  of 
Polish  nativity,  bad  teeth,  and  a  cunning  hand  at 
cookery.  Not  so  cunning,  however,  but  that  old 
lady  Mandle's  was  more  artful  still  in  such  mat 
ters  as  meat-soups,  broad  noodles,  fish  with  egg 
sauce,  and  the  like.  As  ladies-in-waiting,  flatter 
ing  yet  jealous,  admiring  though  resentful,  she  had 
Mrs.  Lamb,  Mrs.  Brunswick,  and  Mrs.  Wormser, 
themselves  old  ladies  and  erstwhile  queens,  now 
deposed.  And  the  crown  jewel  in  old  lady  Man- 
die's  diadem  was  my  son  Hugo. 

Mrs.  Mandle  was  not  only  a  queen  but  a  spoiled 
old  lady.  And  not  only  a  spoiled  old  lady  but  a 
confessedly  spoiled  old  lady.  Bridling  and  wag 
ging  her  white  head  she  admitted  her  pampered 
state.  It  was  less  an  admission  than  a  boast.  Her 
son  Hugo  had  spoiled  her.  This,  too,  she  ack 
nowledged.  "My  son  Hugo  spoils  me,"  she  would 
say,  and  there  was  no  proper  humbleness  in  her 
voice.  Though  he  was  her  only  son  she  never 

76 


OLD  LADY  HANDLE  77 

spoke  of  him  merely  as  "Hugo,"  or  "My  son,"  but 
always  as  "My  son  Hugo."  She  rolled  the  three 
words  on  her  tongue  as  though  they  were  delicious 
morsels  from  which  she  would  extract  all  possible 
savour  and  sweetness.  And  when  she  did  this 
you  could  almost  hear  the  click  of  the  stiffening 
spines  of  Mrs.  Lamb,  Mrs.  Brunswick,  and  Mrs. 
Wormser.  For  they  envied  her  her  son  Hugo,  and 
resented  him  as  only  three  old  ladies  could  who 
were  living,  tolerated  and  dependent,  with  their 
married  sons  and  their  sons'  wives. 

Any  pleasant  summer  afternoon  at  four  o'clock 
you  might  have  seen  Mrs.  Mandle  holding  court. 
The  four  old  women  sat,  a  decent  black  silk  row,  on 
a  shady  bench  in  Washington  Park  (near  the  refec 
tory  and  afternoon  coffee).  Three  of  them  com 
plained  about  their  daughters-in-law.  One  of 
them  bragged  about  her  son.  Adjective  crowding 
adjective,  pride  in  her  voice,  majesty  in  her  mien, 
she  bragged  about  my  son  Hugo. 

My  son  Hugo  had  no  wife.  Not  only  that, 
Hugo  Mandle,  at  forty,  had  no  thought  of  marry 
ing.  Not  that  there  was  anything  austere  or 
saturnine  about  Hugo.  He  made  you  think,  some 
how,  of  a  cherubic,  jovial  monk.  It  may  have 
been  his  rosy  rotundity,  or,  perhaps,  the  way  in 
which  his  thinning  hair  vanished  altogether  at  the 
top  of  his  head,  so  as  to  form  a  tonsure.  Hugo 


78  HALF  PORTIONS 

Mandle,  kindly,  generous,  shrewd,  spoiled  his  old 
mother  in  the  way  in  which  women  of  seventy, 
whose  middle  life  has  been  hard,  like  to  be  spoiled. 
First  of  all,  of  course,  she  reigned  unchecked  over 
the  South  Park  Avenue  flat.  She  quarrelled  whole 
somely  and  regularly  with  Polish  Anna.  Al 
ternately  she  threatened  Anna  with  dismissal  and 
Anna  threatened  Ma  Mandle  with  impending 
departure.  This  had  been  going  on,  comfortably, 
for  fifteen  years.  Ma  Mandle  held  the  purse  and 
her  son  filled  it.  Hugo  paid  everything  from  the 
rent  to  the  iceman,  and  this  without  once  making 
his  mother  feel  a  beneficiary.  She  possessed  an 
infinitesimal  income  of  her  own,  left  her  out  of  the 
ruins  of  her  dead  husband's  money,  but  this  Hugo 
always  waved  aside  did  she  essay  to  pay  for  her  own 
movie  ticket  or  an  ice  cream  soda.  "Now,  now! 
None  of  that,  Ma.  Your  money's  no  good  to-night." 

When  he  returned  from  a  New  York  business 
trip  he  usually  brought  her  two  gifts,  one  practical, 
the  other  absurd.  She  kissed  him  for  the  first  and 
scolded  him  for  the  second,  but  it  was  the  ab 
surdity,  fashioned  of  lace,  or  silk,  or  fragile  stuff, 
that  she  pridefully  displayed  to  her  friends. 

"Look  what  my  son  Hugo  brought  me.  I 
should  wear  a  thing  like  that  in  my  old  days. 
But  it's  beautiful  anyway,  h'm?  He's  got  taste, 
my  son  Hugo." 


OLD  LADY  HANDLE  79 

In  the  cool  of  the  evening  you  saw  them  taking 
a  slow  and  solemn  walk  together,  his  hand  on  her 
arm.  He  surprised  her  with  matinee  tickets  in 
pairs,  telling  her  to  treat  one  of  her  friends.  On 
Anna's  absent  Thursdays  he  always  offered  to  take 
dinner  downtown.  He  brought  her  pound  boxes 
of  candy  tied  with  sly  loops  and  bands  of  gay 
satin  ribbon  which  she  carefully  rolled  and  tucked 
away  in  a  drawer.  He  praised  her  cooking,  and 
teased  her  with  elephantine  playfulness,  and  told 
her  that  she  looked  like  a  chicken  in  that  hat. 
Oh,  yes,  indeed!  Mrs.  Mandle  was  a  spoiled  old 
lady. 

At  half-past  one  she  always  prepared  to  take 
her  nap  in  the  quiet  of  her  neat  flat.  She  would 
select  a  plump,  after-lunch  chocolate  from  the  box 
in  her  left-hand  bureau  drawer,  take  off  her  shoes, 
and  settle  her  old  frame  in  comfort.  No  noisy 
grandchildren  to  disturb  her  rest.  No  fault 
finding  daughter-in-law  to  bustle  her  out  of  the 
way.  The  sounds  that  Anna  made,  moving  about 
in  the  kitchen  at  the  far  end  of  the  long  hall,  were 
the  subdued  homely  swishings  and  brushings  that 
lulled  and  soothed  rather  than  irritated.  At 
half-past  two  she  rose,  refreshed,  dressed  herself 
in  her  dotted  swiss  with  its  rows  of  val,  or  in  black 
silk,  modish  both.  She  was,  in  fact,  a  modish 
old  lady  as  were  her  three  friends.  They  were  not 


80  HALF  PORTIONS 


the  ultra-modern  type  °f  °ld  lady  who  at  sixty 
apes  sixteen.  They  were  neat  and  rather  tart- 
tongued  septuagenarians,  guiltless  of  artifice. 
Their  soft  white  hair  was  dressed  neatly  and  craft 
ily  so  as  to  conceal  the  thinning  spots  that  revealed 
the  pink  scalp  beneath.  Their  corsets  and  their 
stomachs  were  too  high,  perhaps,  for  fashion, 
and  their  heavy  brooches  and  chains  and  rings 
appeared  clumsy  when  compared  to  the  hoar 
frost  tracery  of  the  platinumsmith's  exquisite 
art.  But  their  skirts  had  pleats  when  pleated 
skirts  were  worn,  and  their  sleeves  were  snug  when 
snug  sleeves  were  decreed.  They  were  inclined  to 
cling  over-long  to  a  favourite  leather  reticule, 
scuffed  and  shapeless  as  an  old  shoe,  but  they 
could  hold  their  own  at  bridge  on  a  rainy  after 
noon.  In  matters  of  material  and  cut  Mrs. 
Mandle  triumphed.  Her  lace  was  likely  to  be 
real  where  that  of  the  other  three  was  imitation. 

So  there  they  sat  on  a  park  bench  in  the  pleasant 
afternoon  air,  filling  their  lives  with  emptiness. 
They  had  married,  and  brought  children  into  the 
world;  sacrificed  for  them,  managed  a  household, 
been  widowed.  They  represented  magnificent 
achievement,  those  four  old  women,  though  they 
themselves  did  not  know  it.  They  had  come  up 
the  long  hill,  reached  its  apex,  and  come  down. 
Their  journey  was  over  and  yet  they  sat  by  the 


OLD  LADY  MANDLE  81 

roadside.  They  knew  that  which  could  have 
helped  younger  travellers  over  the  next  hill,  but 
those  fleet-footed  ones  pressed  on,  wanting  none  of 
their  wisdom.  Ma  Handle  alone  still  moved.  She 
still  queened  it  over  her  own  household;  she  alone 
still  had  the  delightful  task  of  making  a  man  com 
fortable.  If  the  world  passed  them  by  as  they 
sat  there  it  did  not  pass  unscathed.  Their  shrewd 
old  eyes  regarded  the  panorama,  undeceived. 
They  did  not  try  to  keep  up  with  the  procession, 
but  they  derived  a  sly  amusement  and  entertain 
ment  from  their  observation  of  the  modes  and 
manners  of  this  amazing  day  and  age.  Perhaps 
it  was  well  that  this  plump  matron  in  the  over- 
tight  skirt  or  that  miss  mincing  on  four-inch 
heels  could  not  hear  the  caustic  comment  of  the 
white-haired  four  sitting  so  mildly  on  the  bench 
at  the  side  of  the  path. 

Their  talk,  stray  as  it  might,  always  came  back 
to  two  subjects.  They  seemed  never  to  tire  of 
them.  Three  talked  of  their  daughters-in-law, 
and  bitterness  rasped  their  throats.  One  talked 
of  her  son,  and  her  voice  was  unctuous  with  pride. 

"My  son's  wife "  one  of  the  three  would  be 
gin.  There  was  something  terribly  significant  in 
the  mock  respect  with  which  she  uttered  the  title. 

"If  I  had  ever  thought,"  Mrs.  Brunswick  would 
say,  shaking  her  head,  "if  I  had  ever  thought 


82  HALF  PORTIONS 

that  I  would  live  to  see  the  day  when  I  had  to 
depend  on  strangers  for  my  comfort,  I  would  have 
wished  myself  dead." 

"You  wouldn't  call  your  son  a  stranger,  Mrs. 
Brunswick!"  in  shocked  tones  from  Mrs.  Mandle. 

"A  stranger  has  got  more  consideration.  I 
count  for  nothing.  Less  than  nothing.  I'm  in 
the  way.  I  don't  interfere  in  that  household. 
I  see  enough,  and  I  hear  enough,  but  I  say  nothing. 
My  son's  wife,  she  says  it  all." 

A  silence,  thoughtful,  brooding.  Then,  from 
Mrs.  Wormser:  "What  good  do  you  have  of  your 
children?  They  grow  up,  and  what  do  you  have 
of  them?" 

More  shaking  of  heads,  and  a  dark  murmur 
about  the  advisability  of  an  Old  People's  Home  as 
a  refuge.  Then: 

"My  son  Hugo  said  only  yesterday,  'Ma,' 
he  said,  *  when  it  comes  to  housekeeping  you  could 
teach  them  all  something,  believe  me.  Why,'  he 
says,  'if  I  was  to  try  and  get  a  cup  of  coffee  like 
this  in  a  restaurant — well,  you  couldn't  get  it  in  a 
restaurant,  that's  all.  You  couldn't  get  it  in  any 
hotel,  Michigan  Avenue  or  I  don't  care  where." 

Goaded,  Mrs.  Lamb  would  look  up  from  her 
knitting.  "Mark  my  words,  he'll  marry  yet." 
She  was  a  sallow,  lively  woman,  her  hair  still 
markedly  streaked  with  black.  Her  rheumatism- 


OLD  LADY  HANDLE  83 

twisted  fingers  were  always  grotesquely  busy  with 
some  handiwork,  and  the  finished  product  was  a 
marvel  of  perfection. 

Mrs.  Wormser,  plump,  placid,  agreed.  "That's 
the  kind  always  marries  late.  And  they  get  it 
the  worst.  Say,  my  son  was  no  spring  chicken, 
either,  when  he  married.  And  you  would  think 
the  sun  rises  and  sets  in  his  wife.  Well,  I  suppose 
it's  only  natural.  But  you  wait." 

"Some  girl  is  going  to  have  a  snap."  Mrs. 
Brunswick,  eager,  peering,  a  trifle  vindictive, 
offered  final  opinion.  "The  girls  aren't  going  to 
let  a  boy  like  your  Hugo  get  away.  Not  nowadays, 
the  way  they  run  after  them  like  crazy.  All  they 
think  about  is  dress  and  a  good  time." 

The  three  smiled  grimly.  Ma  Mandle  smiled, 
too,  a  little  nervously,  her  fingers  creasing  and 
uncreasing  a  fold  of  her  black  silk  skirt  as  she  made 
airy  answer:  "If  I've  said  once  I've  said  a  million 
times  to  my  son  Hugo,  '  Hugo,  why  don't  you  pick 
out  some  nice  girl  and  settle  down?  I  won't  be 
here  always.'  And  he  says,  'Getting  tired  of  me, 
are  you,  Ma?  I  guess  maybe  you're  looking  for  a 
younger  fellow.'  Only  last  night  I  said,  at  the 
table,  'Hugo,  when  are  you  going  to  get  married?' 
And  he  laughed.  'When  I  find  somebody  that 
can  cook  dumplings  like  these.  Pass  me  another, 
Ma'." 


84  HALF  PORTIONS 

"That's  all  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Wonnser. 
"But  when  the  right  one  comes  along  he  won't 
know  dumplings  from  mud." 

"Oh,  a  man  of  forty  isn't  such  a " 

"He's  just  like  a  man  of  twenty-five — only 
worse." 

Mrs.  Mandle  would  rise,  abruptly.  "Well,  I 
guess  you  all  know  my  son  Hugo  better  than  his 
own  mother.  How  about  a  cup  of  coffee,  ladies?" 

They  would  proceed  solemnly  and  eagerly  to  the 
columned  coolness  of  the  park  refectory  where 
they  would  drink  their  thick,  creamy  coffee. 
They  never  knew,  perhaps,  how  keenly  they 
counted  on  that  cup  of  coffee,  or  how  hungrily 
they  drank  it.  Their  minds,  unconsciously,  were 
definitely  fixed  on  the  four-o'clock  drink  that 
stimulated  the  old  nerves. 

Life  had  not  always  been  so  plumply  upholstered 
for  old  lady  Mandle.  She  had  known  its  sharp 
corners  and  cruel  edges.  At  twenty-three,  a 
strong,  healthy,  fun-loving  girl,  she  had  married 
Herman  Mandle,  a  dour  man  twenty-two  years  her 
senior.  In  their  twenty-five  years  of  married  life 
together  Hattie  Mandle  never  had  had  a  five-cent 
piece  that  she  could  call  her  own.  Her  husband 
was  reputed  to  be  wealthy,  and  probably  was, 
according  to  the  standards  of  that  day.  There 
were  three  children:  Etta,  the  oldest;  a  second 


OLD  LADY  HANDLE  85 

?! 

child,  a  girl,  who  died;  and  Hugo.  Her  husband's 
miserliness,  and  the  grind  of  the  planning,  schem 
ing,  and  contriving  necessary  to  clothe  and  feed  her 
two  children  would  have  crushed  the  spirit  of  many 
women.  But  hard  and  glum  as  her  old  husband 
was  he  never  quite  succeeded  in  subduing  her 
courage  or  her  love  of  fun.  The  habit  of  heart 
breaking  economy  clung  to  her,  however,  even 
when  days  of  plenty  became  hers.  It  showed 
in  little  hoarding  ways:  in  the  saving  of  burned 
matches,  of  bits  of  ribbon,  of  scraps  of  food,  of  the 
very  furniture  and  linen,  as  though,  when  these 
were  gone,  no  more  would  follow. 

Ten  years  after  her  marriage  her  husband  re 
tired  from  active  business.  He  busied  himself 
now  with  his  real  estate,  with  mysterious  papers, 
documents,  agents.  He  was  forever  poking 
around  the  house  at  hours  when  a  household  should 
be  manless,  grumbling  about  the  waste  where 
there  was  none,  peering  into  bread  boxes,  prying 
into  corners  never  meant  for  masculine  eyes. 
Etta,  the  girl,  was  like  him,  sharp-nosed,  ferret- 
faced,  stingy.  The  mother  and  the  boy  turned 
to  each  other.  In  a  wordless  way  they  grew  very 
close,  those  two.  It  was  as  if  they  were  silently 
matched  against  the  father  and  daughter. 

It  was  a  queer  household,  brooding,  sinister, 
like  something  created  in  a  Bronte  brain.  The 


86  HALF  PORTIONS 

two  children  were  twenty-four  and  twenty-two 
when  the  financial  avalanche  of  '93  thundered 
across  the  continent  sweeping  Herman  Handle,  a 
mere  speck,  into  the  debris.  Stocks  and  bonds 
and  real  estate  became  paper,  with  paper  value. 
He  clawed  about  with  frantic,  clutching  fingers 
but  his  voice  was  lost  in  the  shrieks  of  thousands 
more  hopelessly  hurt.  You  saw  him  sitting  for 
hours  together  with  a  black  tin  box  in  front  of  him, 
pawing  over  papers,  scribbling  down  figures,  mut 
tering.  The  bleak  future  that  confronted  them 
had  little  of  terror  for  Hattie  Mandle.  It  pre 
sented  no  contrast  with  the  bleakness  of  the  past. 
On  the  day  that  she  came  upon  him,  his  head 
fallen  at  a  curious  angle  against  the  black  tin  box, 
his  hands,  asprawl,  clutching  the  papers  that 
strewed  the  table,  she  was  appalled,  not  at  what  she 
found,  but  at  the  leap  her  heart  gave  at  what  she 
found.  Herman  Mandle's  sudden  death  was  one 
of  the  least  of  the  tragedies  that  trailed  in  the  wake 
of  the  devastating  panic. 

Thus  it  was  that  Hugo  Mandle,  at  twenty -three, 
became  the  head  of  a  household.  He  did  not  need 
to  seek  work.  From  the  time  he  was  seventeen  he 
had  been  employed  in  a  large  china-importing 
house,  starting  as  a  stock  boy.  Brought  up  under 
the  harsh  circumstances  of  Hugo's  youth,  a  boy 
becomes  food  for  the  reformatory  or  takes  on  the 


OLD  LADY  HANDLE  87 

seriousness  and  responsibility  of  middle  age.  In 
Hugo's  case  the  second  was  true.  From  his  father 
he  had  inherited  a  mathematical  mind  and  a  sense 
of  material  values.  From  his  mother,  a  certain 
patience  and  courage,  though  he  never  attained 
her  iron  indomitahility. 

It  had  been  a  terrific  struggle.  His  salary  at 
twenty-three  was  most  modest,  but  he  was  getting 
on.  He  intended  to  be  a  buyer,  some  day,  and 
take  trips  abroad  to  the  great  Austrian  and  French 
and  English  china  houses. 

The  day  after  the  funeral  he  said  to  his  mother, 
"Well,  now  we've  got  to  get  Etta  married.  But 
married  well.  Somebody  who'll  take  care  of  her." 

"You're  a  good  son,  Hugo,"  Mrs.  Handle  had 
said. 

Hugo  shook  his  head.  "It  isn't  that.  If  she's 
comfortable  and  happy — or  as  happy  as  she  knows 
how  to  be — she'll  never  come  back.  That's  what 
I  want.  There's  debts  to  pay,  too.  But  I  guess 
we'll  get  along." 

They  did  get  along,  but  at  snail's  pace.  There 
followed  five  years  of  economy  so  rigid  as  to  make 
the  past  seem  profligate.  Etta,  the  acid-tongued, 
the  ferret-faced,  was  not  the  sort  to  go  off  without 
the  impetus  of  a  dowry.  The  man  for  Etta,  the 
shrew,  must  be  kindly,  long-suffering,  subdued — 
and  in  need  of  a  start.  He  was.  They  managed 


88  HALF  PORTIONS 

•  \ 

a  very  decent  trousseau  and  the  miracle  of  five 

thousand  dollars  in  cash.  Every  stitch  in  the 
trousseau  and  every  penny  in  the  dowry  repre 
sented  incredible  sacrifice  and  self-denial  on  the 
part  of  mother  and  brother.  Etta  went  off  to  her 
new  home  in  Pittsburg  with  her  husband.  She 
had  expressed  thanks  for  nothing  and  had  bickered 
with  her  mother  to  the  last,  but  even  Hugo  knew 
that  her  suit  and  hat  and  gloves  and  shoes  were 
right.  She  was  almost  handsome  in  them,  the 
unwonted  flush  of  excitement  colouring  her  cheeks, 
brightening  her  eyes. 

The  next  day  Hugo  came  home  with  a  new  hat 
for  his  mother,  a  four-pound  steak,  and  the  an 
nouncement  that  he  was  going  to  take  music  les 
sons.  A  new  era  had  begun  in  the  life  of  Ma 
Mandle. 

Two  people,  no  matter  how  far  apart  in  years  or 
tastes,  cannot  struggle  side  by  side,  like  that,  in  a 
common  cause,  without  forging  between  them  a 
bond  indissoluble.  Hugo,  at  twenty-eight,  had 
the  serious  mien  of  a  man  of  forty.  At  forty  he 
was  to  revert  to  his  slighted  twenty-eight,  but  he 
did  not  know  that  then.  His  music  lessons  were 
his  one  protest  against  a  beauty-starved  youth. 
He  played  rather  surprisingly  well  the  cheap  music 
of  the  day,  waggling  his  head  (already  threatening 
baldness)  in  a  professional  vaudeville  manner  and 


OLD  LADY  HANDLE  89 

squinting  up  through  his  cigar  smoke,  happily. 
His  mother,  seated  in  the  room,  sewing,  would  say, 
"Play  that  again,  Hugo.  That's  beautiful. 
What's  the  name  of  that?"  He  would  tell  her, 
for  the  dozenth  time,  and  play  it  over,  she  hum 
ming,  off-key,  in  his  wake.  The  relation  between 
them  was  more  than  that  of  mother  and  son.  It 
was  a  complex  thing  that  had  in  it  something  con 
jugal.  When  Hugo  kissed  his  mother  with  a  re 
sounding  smack  and  assured  her  that  she  looked 
like  a  kid  she  would  push  him  away  with  little 
futile  shoves,  pat  her  hair  into  place,  and  pretend 
annoyance.  "Go  away,  you  big  rough  thing!" 
she  would  cry.  But  all  unconsciously  she  got  from 
it  a  thrill  that  her  husband's  withered  kisses  had 
never  given  her. 

Twelve  years  had  passed  since  Etta's  marriage. 
Hugo's  salary  was  a  comfortable  thing  now,  even 
in  these  days  of  soaring  prices.  The  habit  of 
economy,  so  long  a  necessity,  had  become  almost 
a  vice  in  old  lady  Handle.  Hugo,  with  the 
elasticity  of  younger  years,  learned  to  spend  freely, 
but  his  mother's  thrift  and  shrewdness  automati 
cally  swelled  his  savings.  When  he  was  on  the 
road,  as  he  sometimes  was  for  weeks  at  a  time, 
she  spent  only  a  tithe  of  the  generous  sum  he  left 
with  her.  She  and  Anna  ate  those  sketchy  meals 
that  obtain  in  a  manless  household.  When  Hugo 


90  HALF  PORTIONS 

was  home  the  table  was  abundant  and  even  choice, 
though  Ma  Mandle  often  went  blocks  out  of  her 
way  to  save  three  cents  on  a  bunch  of  new  beets. 
So  strong  is  usage.  She  would  no  more  have 
wasted  his  money  than  she  would  have  knifed  him 
in  the  dark.  She  ran  the  household  capably,  but 
her  way  was  the  old-fashioned  way.  Sometimes 
Hugo  used  to  protest,  aghast  at  some  petty  act  of 
parsimony. 

"But,  Ma,  what  do  you  want  to  scrimp  like  that 
for!  You're  the  worst  tightwad  I  ever  saw. 
Here,  take  this  ten  and  blow  it.  You're  worse 
than  the  squirrels  in  the  park,  darned  if  you  ain't! " 

She  couldn't  resist  the  ten.  Neither  could  she 
resist  showing  it,  next  day,  to  Mrs.  Brunswick, 
Mrs.  Lamb,  and  Mrs.  Wormser.  "How  my  son 
Hugo  spoils  me!  He  takes  out  a  ten-dollar  bill, 
and  he  stuffs  it  into  my  hand  and  says  'Ma, 
you're  the  worst  tightwad  I  ever  saw."  She 
laughed  contentedly.  But  she  did  not  blow  the 
ten.  As  she  grew  older  Hugo  regularly  lied  to  her 
about  the  price  of  theatre  tickets,  dainties,  articles 
of  dress,  railway  fares,  luxuries.  Her  credulity 
increased  with  age,  shrewd  though  she  naturally 
was. 

It  was  a  second  blooming  for  Ma  Mandle. 
When  he  surprised  her  with  an  evening  at  the 
theatre  she  would  fuss  before  her  mirror  for  a  full 


OLD  LADY  HANDLE  91 

Lour.  "Some  gal!"  Hugo  would  shout  when 
finally  she  emerged.  "  Everybody '11  be  asking 
who  the  old  man  is  you're  out  with.  First  thing 
I  know  I'll  have  a  police-woman  after  me  for  going 
around  with  a  chicken." 

"Don't  talk  foolishness."  But  she  would 
flush  like  a  bride.  She  liked  a  musical  comedy 
with  a  lot  of  girls  in  it  and  a  good-looking  tenor. 
Next  day  you  would  hear  her  humming  the  catch- 
tune  in  an  airy  falsetto.  Sometimes  she  wondered 
about  him.  She  was,  after  all,  a  rather  wise  old 
lady,  and  she  knew  something  of  men.  She  had  a 
secret  horror  of  his  becoming  what  she  called  fast. 

"Why  don't  you  take  out  some  nice  young  girl 
instead  of  an  old  woman  like  me,  Hugo?  Any 
girl  would  be  only  too  glad."  But  in  her  heart 
was  a  dread.  She  thought  of  Mrs.  Lamb,  Mrs. 
Wormser,  and  Mrs.  Brunswick. 

So  they  had  gone  on,  year  after  year,  in  the 
comfortable  flat  on  South  Park  Avenue.  A 
pleasant  thing,  life. 

And  then  Hugo  married,  suddenly,  breathlessly, 
as  a  man  of  forty  does. 

Afterward,  Ma  Mandle  could  recall  almost 
nothing  from  which  she  might  have  taken  warn 
ing.  That  was  because  he  had  said  so  little. 
She  remembered  that  he  had  come  home  to  dinner 
one  evening  and  had  spoken  admiringly  of  a 


92  HALF  PORTIONS 

woman  buyer  from  Omaha.  He  did  not  often 
speak  of  business. 

"She  buys  like  a  man,"  he  had  said  at  dinner. 
"I  never  saw  anything  like  it.  Knew  what  she 
wanted  and  got  it.  She  bought  all  my  best 
numbers  at  rock  bottom.  I  sold  her  a  four-figure 
bill  in  half  an  hour.  And  no  fuss.  Everything 
right  to  the  point  and  when  I  asked  her  out  to 
dinner  she  turned  me  down.  Good  looking,  too. 
She's  coming  in  again  to-morrow  for  novelties." 

Ma  Mandle  didn't  even  recall  hearing  her  name 
until  the  knife  descended.  Hugo  played  the  piano 
a  great  deal  all  that  week,  after  dinner.  Senti 
mental  things,  with  a  minor  wail  in  the  chorus. 
Smoked  a  good  deal,  too.  Twice  he  spent  a  full 
hour  in  dressing,  whistling  absent-mindedly  during 
the  process  and  leaving  his  necktie  rack  looking 
like  a  nest  of  angry  pythons  when  he  went  out, 
without  saying  where  he  was  going.  The  follow 
ing  week  he  didn't  touch  the  piano  and  took  long 
walks  in  Washington  Park,  alone,  after  ten. 
He  seemed  uninterested  in  his  meals.  Usually 
he  praised  this  dish,  or  that. 

"How  do  you  like  the  blueberry  pie,  Hugo?" 

"'S  all  right."     And  declined  a  second  piece. 

The  third  week  he  went  West  on  business. 
When  he  came  home  he  dropped  his  bag  in  the  hall, 
strode  into  his  mother's  bedroom,  and  stood  before 


OLD  LADY  HANDLE  93 

her  like  a  schoolboy.  "Lil  and  I  are  going  to  be 
married,"  he  said. 

Ma  Mandle  had  looked  up  at  him,  her  face  a 
blank.  "Lil?" 

"Sure.  I  told  you  all  about  her."  He  hadn't. 
He  had  merely  thought  about  her,  for  three  weeks, 
to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else.  "Ma,  you'll 
love  her.  She  knows  all  about  you.  She's  the 
grandest  girl  in  the  world.  Say,  I  don't  know  why 
she  ever  fell  for  a  dub  like  me.  Well,  don't  look  so 
stunned.  I  guess  you  kind  of  suspicioned,  huh?" 

"But  who ?" 

"I  never  thought  she'd  look  at  me.  Earned 
her  own  good  salary,  and  strictly  business,  but 
she's  a  real  woman.  Says  she  wants  her  own 
home  an — 'n  everything.  Says  every  normal 
woman  does.  Says " 

Ad  lib. 

They  were  married  the  following  month. 

Hugo  sub-leased  the  flat  on  South  Park  and  took 
an  eight-room  apartment  farther  east.  Ma  Man- 
die's  red  and  green  plush  parlour  pieces,  and  her 
mahogany  rockers,  and  her  rubber  plant,  and  the 
fern,  and  the  can  of  grapefruit  pits  that  she  and 
Anna  had  planted  and  that  had  come  up,  miracu 
lously,  in  the  form  of  shiny,  thick  little  green 
leaves,  all  were  swept  away  in  the  upheaval  that 
followed.  Gone,  too,  was  Polish  Anna,  with  her 


94  HALF  PORTIONS 

damp  calico  and  her  ubiquitous  pail  and  dripping 
rag  and  her  gutturals.  In  her  place  was  a  trim 
Swede  who  wore  white  kid  shoes  in  the  afternoon 
and  gray  dresses  and  cob- web  aprons.  The  sight 
of  the  neat  Swede  sitting  in  her  room  at  two-thirty 
in  the  afternoon,  tatting,  never  failed  to  fill  Ma 
Handle  with  a  dumb  fury.  Anna  had  been  an  all- 
day  scrubber. 

But  Lil.  Hugo  thought  her  very  beautiful, 
which  she  was  not.  A  plump,  voluble,  full-bosomed 
woman,  exquisitely  neat,  with  a  clear,  firm  skin, 
bright  brown  eyes,  an  unerring  instinct  for  clothes, 
and  a  shrewd  business  head.  Hugo's  devotion 
amounted  to  worship. 

He  used  to  watch  her  at  her  toilette  in  their  rose 
and  black  mahogany  front  bedroom.  Her  plump 
white  shoulders  gleamed  from  pink  satin  straps. 
She  smelled  pleasantly  of  sachet  and  a  certain 
heady  scent  she  affected.  Seated  before  the  mirror, 
she  stared  steadily  at  herself  with  a  concentration 
such  as  an  artist  bestows  upon  a  work  that  de 
pends,  for  its  perfection,  upon  nuances  of  light  and 
shade.  Everything  about  her  shone  and  glittered. 
Her  pink  nails  were  like  polished  coral.  Her  hair 
gleamed  in  smooth  undulations,  not  a  strand  out 
of  place.  Her  skin  was  clear  and  smooth  as  a 
baby's.  Her  hands  were  plump  and  white.  She 
was  always  getting  what  she  called  a  facial,  from 


OLD  LADY  HANDLE  95 

which  process  she  would  emerge  looking  pinker 
and  creamier  than  ever.  Lil  knew  when  camisoles 
were  edged  with  filet,  and  when  with  Irish.  In 
stinctively  she  sensed  when  taffeta  was  to  be 
superseded  by  foulard.  The  contents  of  her  scented 
bureau  drawers  needed  only  a  dab  of  whipped 
cream  on  top  to  look  as  if  they  might  have  been 
eaten  as  something  souffle. 

"How  do  I  look  in  it,  Hugo?  Do  you  like 
it?"  was  a  question  that  rose  daily  to  her  lips.  A 
new  hat,  or  frock,  or  collar,  or  negligee.  Not  that 
she  was  unduly  extravagant.  She  knew  values r 
and  profited  by  her  knowledge. 

"Le's  see.  Turn  around.  It  looks  great  on 
you.  Yep.  That's  all  right." 

He  liked  to  fancy  himself  a  connoisseur  in 
women's  clothes  and  to  prove  it  he  sometimes 
brought  home  an  article  of  feminine  apparel 
glimpsed  in  a  shop  window  or  showcase,  but  Lil 
soon  put  a  stop  to  that.  She  had  her  own  ideas 
on  clothes.  He  turned  to  jewellery.  On  Lil's 
silken  bosom  reposed  a  diamond-and-platinum  pin 
the  size  and  general  contour  of  a  fish-knife.  She 
had.  a  dinner  ring  that  crowded  the  second  knuckle, 
and  on  her  plump  wrist  sparkled  an  oblong  so  en 
crusted  with  diamonds  that  its  utilitarian  dial 
was  almost  lost. 

It  wasn't  a  one-sided  devotion,  however.     Lil 


96  HALF  PORTIONS 

knew  much  about  men,  and  she  had  an  instinct 
for  making  them  comfortable.  It  is  a  gift  that 
makes  up  for  myriad  minor  shortcomings.  She 
had  a  way  of  laying  his  clean  things  out  on  the 
bed — fresh  linen,  clean  white  socks  (Hugo  was 
addicted  to  white  socks  and  tan,  low-cut  shoes), 
silk  shirt,  immaculate  handkerchief.  When  he 
came  in  at  the  end  of  a  hard  day  downtown — hot, 
fagged,  sticky — she  saw  to  it  that  the  bathroom 
was  his  own  for  an  hour  so  that  he  could  bathe, 
shave,  powder,  dress,  and  emerge  refreshed  to  eat 
his  good  dinner  in  comfort.  Lil  was  always  wait 
ing  for  him  cool,  interested,  sweet-smelling. 

When  she  said,  "How's  business,  lover?"  she 
really  wanted  to  know.  More  than  that,  when 
he  told  her  she  understood,  having  herself  been  so 
long  in  the  game.  She  gave  him  shrewd  advice, 
too,  so  shrewdly  administered  that  he  never  real 
ized  he  had  been  advised,  and  so,  man-like,  could 
never  resent  it. 

Ma  Mandle's  reign  was  over. 

To  Mrs.  Lamb,  Mrs.  Brunswick,  and  Mrs. 
Wormser  Ma  Mandle  lied  magnificently.  Their 
eager,  merciless  questions  pierced  her  like  knives, 
but  she  made  placid  answer:  "Young  folks  are 
young  folks.  They  do  things  different.  I  got  my 
way.  My  son's  wife  has  got  hers."  Their  quick 
ears  caught  the  familiar  phrase. 


OLD  LADY  HANDLE  97 

i 

"It's  hard,  just  the  same,"  Mrs.  Wormser  in 
sisted,  "after  you've  been  boss  all  these  years  to 
have  somebody  else  step  in  and  shove  you  out  of 
the  way.  Don't  I  know!" 

"I'm  glad  to  have  a  little  rest.  Marketing  and 
housekeeping  nowadays  is  no  snap,  with  the  prices 
what  they  are.  Anybody  that  wants  the  pleasure 
is  welcome." 

i  But  they  knew,  the  three.  There  was,  in  Ma 
Mandle's  tone,  a  hollow  pretence  that  deceived 
no  one.  They  knew,  and  she  knew  that  they 
knew.  She  was  even  as  they  were,  a  drinker  of  the 
hemlock  cup,  an  eater  of  ashes. 

Hugo  Mandle  was  happier  and  more  comfortable 
than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life.  It  wasn't  merely 
his  love  for  Lil,  and  her  love  for  him  that  made 
him  happy.  Lil  set  a  good  table,  though  perhaps 
it  was  not  as  bounteous  as  his  mother's  had  been. 
His  food,  somehow,  seemed  to  agree  with  him  bet 
ter  than  it  used  to.  It  was  because  Lil  selected  her 
provisions  with  an  eye  to  their  building  value,  and 
to  Hugo's  figure.  She  told  him  he  was  getting  too 
fat,  and  showed  him  where,  and  Hugo  agreed  with 
her  and  took  off  twenty-five  burdensome  pounds, 
but  Ma  Mandle  fought  every  ounce  of  it. 

"Tou'll  weaken  yourself,  Hugo!  Eat!  How 
can  a  man  work  and  not  eat?  I  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing.  Fads!" 


98  HALF  PORTIONS 

But  these  were  purely  physical  things.  It  was 
a  certain  mental  relaxation  that  Hugo  enjoyed, 
though  he  did  not  definitely  know  it.  He  only 
knew  that  Lil  seemed,  somehow,  to  understand. 
For  years  his  mother  had  trailed  after  him,  putting 
away  things  that  he  wanted  left  out,  tidying  that 
which  he  preferred  left  in  seeming  disorder.  Lil 
seemed  miraculously  to  understand  about  those 
things.  He  liked,  for  example,  a  certain  grimy, 
gritty  old  rag  with  which  he  was  wont  to  polish  his 
golf  clubs.  It  was  caked  with  dirt,  and  most  dis 
reputable,  but  it  was  of  just  the  right  material,  or 
weight,  or  size,  or  something,  and  he  had  for  it  the 
unreasoning  affection  that  a  child  has  for  a  tat 
tered  rag  doll  among  a  whole  family  of  golden- 
haired,  blue-eyed  beauties.  Ma  Handle,  tidying 
up,  used  to  throw  away  that  rag  in  horror.  Some 
times  he  would  rescue  it,  crusted  as  it  was  with 
sand  and  mud  and  scouring  dust.  Sometimes  he 
would  have  to  train  in  a  new  rag,  and  it  was  never 
as  good  as  the  old.  Lil  understood  about  that 
rag,  and  approved  of  it.  For  that  matter,  she  had 
a  rag  of  her  own  which  she  used  to  remove  cold 
cream  from  her  face  and  throat.  It  was  a  clean 
enough  bit  of  soft  cloth  to  start  with,  but  she  clung 
to  it  as  an  actress  often  does,  until  it  was  smeared 
with  the  pink  of  makeup  and  the  black  of  Chicago 
soot.  She  used  to  search  remote  corners  of  it 


OLD  LADY  HANDLE  99 

for  an  inch  of  unused,  unsmeared  space.  Lil 
knew  about  not  talking  when  you  wanted  to  read 
the  paper,  too.  Ma  Mandle,  at  breakfast,  had 
always  had  a  long  and  intricate  story  to  tell 
about  the  milkman,  or  the  strawberries  that  she 
had  got  the  day  before  and  that  had  spoiled  over 
night  in  the  icebox.  A  shame!  Sometimes  he 
had  wanted  to  say,  "Let  me  read  my  paper  in 
peace,  won't  you!"  But  he  never  had.  Now  it 
was  Lil  who  listened  patiently  to  Ma  Mandle 's 
small  grievances,  and  Hugo  was  left  free  to  peruse 
the  head-lines. 

If  you  had  told  Ma  Mandle  that  she  was  doing 
her  best  to  ruin  the  life  of  the  one  person  she  loved 
best  in  all  the  world  she  would  have  told  you  that 
you  were  insane.  If  you  had  told  her  that  she  was 
jealous  she  would  have  denied  it,  furiously.  But 
both  were  true. 

When  Hugo  brought  his  wife  a  gift  he  brought 
one  for  his  mother  as  well. 

"You  don't  need  to  think  you  have  to  bring 
your  old  mother  anything,"  she  would  say,  unrea 
sonably. 

"Didn't  I  always  bring  you  something,  Ma?" 

If  seventy  can  be  said  to  sulk,  Ma  Mandle 
sulked. 

Lil,  on  her  way  to  market  in  the  morning,  was  a 
pleasant  sight,  trim,  well-shod,  immaculate.  Ma, 


100  HALF  PORTIONS 

whose  marketing  costume  had  always  been  neat 
but  sketchy,  would  eye  her  disapprovingly.  "Are 
you  going  out?" 

"Just  to  market.  I  thought  I'd  start  early, 
before  everything  was  picked  over." 

"Oh — to  market!  I  thought  you  were  going  to 
a  party,  you're  so  dressy." 

In  the  beginning  Lil  had  offered  to  allow  Ma 
Mandle  to  continue  with  the  marketing  but  Mrs. 
Mandle  had  declined,  acidly.  "Oh,  no,"  she  had 
said.  "This  is  your  household  now." 

But  she  never  failed  to  inspect  the  groceries  as 
they  lay  on  the  kitchen  table  after  delivery.  She 
would  press  a  wise  and  disdainful  thumb  into  a 
head  of  lettuce;  poke  a  pot-roast  with  disapproving 
finger;  turn  a  plump  chicken  over  and  thump  it 
down  with  a  look  that  was  pregnant  with  meaning. 

Ma  Mandle  disapproved  of  many  things.  Of 
Lil's  silken,  lacy  lingerie;  of  her  social  activities; 
of  what  she  termed  her  wastefulness.  Lil  wore  the 
fewest  possible  undergarments,  according  to  the 
fashion  of  the  day,  and  she  worried,  good-naturedly, 
about  additional  plumpness  that  was  the  result  of 
leisure  and  of  rich  food.  She  was  addicted  to 
afternoon  parties  at  the  homes  of  married  women 
of  her  own  age  and  station — pretty,  well-dressed, 
over-indulged  women  who  regularly  ate  too  much. 
They  served  a  mayonnaise  chicken  salad,  and  little 


OLD  LADY  HANDLE          101 

hot  buttery  biscuits,  and  strong  coffee  with  sugar 
and  cream,  and  there  were  dishes  of  salted  almonds, 
and  great,  shining,  oily,  black  ripe  olives,  and  a 
heavy,  rich  dessert.  When  she  came  home  she  ate 
nothing. 

"I  couldn't  eat  a  bite  of  dinner,"  she  would 
say.  "Let  me  tell  you  what  we  had."  She  would 
come  to  the  table  in  one  of  her  silken,  lace-bedecked 
teagowns  and  talk  animatedly  to  Hugo  while  he 
ate  his  dinner  and  eyed  her  appreciatively  as  she 
sat  there  leaning  one  elbow  on  the  cloth,  the  sleeve 
fallen  back  so  that  you  saw  her  plump  white  fore 
arm.  She  kept  her  clear,  rosy  skin  in  spite  of  the 
pastry  and  sweets  and  the  indolent  life,  and  even 
the  layers  of  powder  with  which  she  was  forever 
dabbing  her  face  had  not  coarsened  its  texture. 

Hugo,  man-like,  was  unconscious  of  the  under 
current  of  animosity  between  the  two  women. 
He  was  very  happy.  He  only  knew  that  Lil 
understood  about  cigar  ashes;  that  she  didn't 
mind  if  a  pillow  wasn't  plumped  and  patted  after 
his  Sunday  nap  on  the  davenport;  that  she  never 
complained  to  him  about  the  shortcomings  of  the 
little  Swede,  as  Ma  Mandle  had  about  Polish 
Anna.  Even  at  house-cleaning  time,  which  Ma 
Mandle  had  always  treated  as  a  scourge,  things 
were  as  smooth-running  and  peaceful  as  at  or 
dinary  times.  Just  a  little  bare,  perhaps,  as  to 


102  HALF  PORTIONS 

*  *  « ,  i 

floors,  and  smelling  of  cleanliness.  Lil  applied 
businesslike  methods  to  the  conduct  of  her  house, 
and  they  were  successful  in  spite  of  Ma  Mandle's 
steady  efforts  to  block  them.  Old  lady  Mandle 
did  not  mean  to  be  cruel.  She  only  thought  that 
she  was  protecting  her  son's  interests.  She  did 
not  know  that  the  wise  men  had  a  definite  name 
for  the  mental  processes  which  caused  her,  per 
versely,  to  do  just  the  thing  which  she  knew  she 
should  not  do. 

Hugo  and  Lil  went  out  a  great  deal  in  the  even 
ing.  They  liked  the  theatre,  restaurant  life,  gayety. 
Hugo  learned  to  dance  and  became  marvellously 
expert  at  it,  as  does  your  fat  man. 

"Come  on  and  go  out  with  us  this  evening, 
Mother,"  Lil  would  say. 

"Sure!"  Hugo  would  agree,  heartily.  "Come 
along,  Ma.  We'll  show  you  some  night  life." 

"I  don't  want  to  go,"  Ma  Mandle  would  mut 
ter.  "  I'm  better  off  at  home.  You  enjoy  yourself 
better  without  an  old  woman  dragging  along." 

That  being  true,  they  vowed  it  was  not,  and  re 
newed  their  urging.  In  the  end  she  went,  grud 
gingly.  But  her  old  eyes  would  droop;  the  late 
supper  would  disagree  with  her;  the  noise,  the 
music,  the  laughter,  and  shrill  talk  bewildered  her. 
She  did  not  understand  the  banter,  and  resented 
it. 


OLD  LADY  HANDLE  103 

Next  day,  in  the  park,  she  would  boast  of  her 
life  of  gayety  to  the  vaguely  suspicious  three. 

Later  she  refused  to  go  out  with  them.  She 
stayed  in  her  room  a  good  deal,  fussing  about, 
arranging  bureau  drawers  already  geometrically 
precise,  winding  endless  old  ribbons,  ripping  the 
trimming  off  hats  long  passe  and  re-trimming  them 
with  odds  and  ends  and  scraps  of  feathers  and 
flowers. 

Hugo  and  Lil  used  to  ask  her  to  go  with 
them  to  the  movies,  but  they  liked  the  second 
show  at  eight-thirty  while  she  preferred  the  earlier 
one  at  seven.  She  grew  sleepy  early,  though  she 
often  lay  awake  for  hours  after  composing  herself 
for  sleep.  She  would  watch  the  picture  absorb- 
edly,  but  when  she  stepped,  blinking,  into  the 
bright  glare  of  Fifty -third  Street,  she  always  had  a 
sense  of  let-down,  of  depression. 

A  wise  old  lady  of  seventy,  who  could  not  apply 
her  wisdom  for  her  own  good.  A  rather  lonely 
old  lady,  with  hardening  arteries  and  a  dilating 
heart.  An  increasingly  fault-finding  old  lady. 
Even  Hugo  began  to  notice  it.  She  would  wait 
for  him  to  come  home  and  then,  motioning  him 
mysteriously  into  her  own  room,  would  pour  a 
tale  of  fancied  insult  into  his  ear. 

"I  ran  a  household  and  brought  up  a  family 
before  she  was  born.  I  don't  have  to  be  told 


104  HALF  PORTIONS 

what's  what.  I  may  be  an  old  woman  but  I'm 
not  so  old  that  I  can  sit  and  let  my  own  son  be 
made  a  fool  of.  One  girl  isn't  enough,  she's  got  to 
have  a  wash  woman.  And  now  a  wash  woman 
isn't  enough  she's  got  to  have  a  woman  to  clean 
one  day  a  week." 

An  hour  later,  from  the  front  bedroom,  where 
Hugo  was  dressing,  would  come  the  low  murmur 
of  conversation.  Lil  had  reached  the  complaining 
point,  goaded  by  much  repetition. 

The  attitude  of  the  two  women  distressed  and 
bewildered  Hugo.  He  was  a  simple  soul,  and  this 
was  a  complex  situation.  His  mind  leaped  from 
mother  to  wife,  and  back  again,  joltingly.  After 
all,  one  woman  at  a  time  is  all  that  any  man  can 
handle  successfully. 

"What's  got  into  you  women  folks!"  he  would 
say.  "Always  quarrelling.  Why  can't  you  get 
along." 

One  night  after  dinner  Lil  said,  quite  innocently, 
"  Mother,  we  haven't  a  decent  picture  of  you.  Why 
don't  you  have  one  taken?  In  your  black  lace." 

Old  lady  Handle  broke  into  sudden  fury.  "I 
guess  you  think  I'm  going  to  die!  A  picture  to 
put  on  the  piano  after  I'm  gone,  huh?  'That's  my 
dear  mother  that's  gone.'  Well,  I  don't  have  any 
picture  taken.  You  can  think  of  me  the  way  I 
was  when  I  was  alive." 


OLD  LADY  HANDLE  105 

The  thing  grew  and  swelled  and  took  on  bitter 
ness  as  it  progressed.  LiFs  face  grew  strangely 
flushed  and  little  veins  stood  out  on  her  temples. 
All  the  pent-up  bitterness  that  had  been  seething 
in  Ma  Mandle's  mind  broke  bounds  now,  and 
welled  to  her  lips.  Accusation,  denial;  vitupera 
tion,  retort. 

"You'll  be  happy  when  I'm  gone." 

"If  I  am  it's  your  fault." 

"It's  the  ones  that  are  used  to  nothing  that  al 
ways  want  the  most.  They  don't  know  where  to 
stop.  When  you  were  working  in  Omaha " 

"The  salary  I  gave  up  to  marry  your  son  was 
more  money  than  you  ever  saw." 

And  through  it  all,  like  a  leit-motiv,  ran  Hugo's 
attempt  at  pacification:  "Now,  Ma!  Don't,  Lil. 
You'll  only  excite  yourself.  What's  got  into  you 
two  women?" 

It  was  after  dinner.  In  the  end  Ma  Mandle 
slammed  out  of  the  house,  hatless.  Her  old  legs 
were  trembling.  Her  hands  shook.  It  was  a  hot 
June  night.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  burning  up. 
In  her  frantic  mind  there  was  even  thought  of 
self-destruction.  There  were  thousands  of  motor 
cars  streaming  by.  The  glare  of  their  lamps  and 
the  smell  of  the  gasoline  blinded  and  stifled  her. 
Once,  at  a  crossing,  she  almost  stumbled  in  front 
of  an  on-rushing  car.  The  curses  of  the  startled 


106  HALF  PORTIONS 

driver  sounded  in  her  terrified  ears  after  she  had 
made  the  opposite  curb  in  a  frantic  bound.  She 
walked  on  and  on  for  what  seemed  to  her  to  be  a 
long  time,  with  plodding,  heavy  step.  She  was 
not  conscious  of  being  tired.  She  came  to  a  park 
bench  and  sat  down,  feeling  very  abused,  and 
lonely  and  agonized.  This  was  what  she  had  come 
to  in  her  old  days.  It  was  for  this  you  bore 
children,  and  brought  them  up  and  sacrificed  for 
them.  How  right  they  were — Mrs.  Lamb,  Mrs. 
Brunswick,  and  Mrs.  Wormser.  Useless,  tin- 
considered.  In  the  way. 

By  degrees  she  grew  calmer.  Her  brain  cooled 
as  her  fevered  old  body  lost  the  heat  of  anger. 
Lil  had  looked  kind  of  sick.  Perhaps  .  .  . 
and  how  worried  Hugo  had  looked.  .  .  . 

Feeling  suddenly  impelled  she  got  up  from  the 
bench  and  started  toward  home.  Her  walk, 
which  had  seemed  interminable,  had  really  lasted 
scarcely  more  than  half  an  hour.  She  had  sat  in 
the  park  scarcely  fifteen  minutes.  Altogether 
her  flight  had  been,  perhaps,  an  hour  in  duration. 

She  had  her  latchkey  in  her  pocket.  She 
opened  the  door  softly.  The  place  was  in  dark 
ness.  Voices  from  the  front  bedroom,  and  the 
sound  of  someone  sobbing,  as  though  spent.  Old 
lady  Mandle's  face  hardened  again.  The  door  of 
the  front  bedroom  was  closed.  Plotting  against 


OLD  LADY  HANDLE  107 

her!  She  crouched  there  in  the  hall,  listening. 
Lil's  voice,  hoarse  with  sobs. 

"I've  tried  and  tried.  But  she  hetes  me. 
Nothing  I  do  suits  her.  If  it  wasn't  for  the  baby 
coming  sometimes  I  think  I'd ' 

"You're  just  nervous  and  excited,  Lil.  It'll 
come  out  all  right.  She's  an  old  lady ' 

"I  know  it.  I  know  it.  I've  said  that  a  million 
times  in  the  last  year  and  a  hah*.  But  that 
doesn't  excuse  everything,  does  it?  Is  that  any 
reason  why  she  should  spoil  our  lives?  It  isn't 
fair.  It  isn't  fair!" 

"Sh!  Don't  cry  like  that,  dear.  Don't! 
You'll  only  make  yourself  sick." 

Her  sobs  again,  racking,  choking,  and  the  gentle 
murmur  of  his  soothing  endearments.  Then,  un 
expectedly,  a  little,  high-pitched  laugh  through  the 
tears. 

"No,  I'm  not  hysterical.  I — it  just  struck  me 
funny.  I  was  just  wondering  if  I  might  be  like 
that.  When  I  grow  old,  and  my  son  marries, 
maybe  I'll  think  everything  his  wife  does  is  wrong. 
I  suppose  if  we  love  them  too  much  we  really 
harm  them.  I  suppose 

"Oh,  it's  going  to  be  a  son,  is  it?" 

"Yes." 

Another  silence.  Then:  "Come,  dear.  Bathe 
your  poor  eyes.  You're  all  worn  out  from  crying. 


108  HALF  PORTIONS 

Why,  sweetheart,  I  don't  believe  I  ever  saw  you 
cry  before." 

"I  know  it.  I  feel  better  now.  I  wish  crying 
could  make  it  all  right.  I'm  sorry.  She's  so  old, 
dear.  That's  the  trouble.  They  live  in  the  past 
and  they  expect  us  to  live  in  the  past  with  them. 
You  were  a  good  son  to  her,  Hughie.  That's 
why  you  make  such  a  wonderful  husband.  Too 
good,  maybe.  You've  spoiled  us  both,  and  now  we 
both  want  all  of  you." 

Hugo  was  silent  a  moment.  He  was  not  a 
quick-thinking  man.  "A  husband  belongs  to  his 
wife,"  he  said  then,  simply.  "He's  his  mother's 
son  by  accident  of  birth.  But  he's  his  wife's 
husband  by  choice,  and  deliberately." 

But  she  laughed  again  at  that.  "It  isn't  as 
easy  as  that,  sweetheart.  If  it  was  there'd  be  no 
jokes  in  the  funny  papers.  My  poor  boy!  And 
just  now,  too,  when  you're  so  worried  about 
business." 

"Business'll  be  all  right,  Lil.  Trade'll  open  up 
next  winter.  It's  got  to.  We've  kept  going  on 
the  Japanese  and  English  stuff.  But  if  the  French 
and  Austrian  factories  start  running  we'll  have  a 
whirlwind  year.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  you  this 
last  year  I  don't  know  how  I'd  have  stood  the 
strain.  No  importing,  and  the  business  just 
keeping  its  head  above  water.  But  you  were 


OLD  LADY  HANDLE  109 

right,  honey.     We've  weathered  the  worst  of  it 


now." 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't  tell  Mother  about  it. 
She'd  have  worried  herself  sick.  If  she  had  known 
we  both  put  every  cent  we  had  into  the  busi 
ness " 

"We'll  get  it  back  ten  times  over.  You'll 
see." 

The  sound  of  footsteps.  "I  wonder  where  she 
went.  She  oughtn't  to  be  out  alone.  I'm  kind  of 
worried  about  her,  Hugo.  Don't  you  think  you'd 
better " 

Ma  Mandle  opened  the  front  door  and  then 
slammed  it,  ostentatiously,  as  though  she  had  just 
come  in. 

"That  you,  Ma?"  called  Hugo. 

He  turned  on  the  hall  light.  She  stood  there, 
blinking,  a  bent,  pathetic  little  figure.  Her  eyes 
were  averted.  "Are  you  all  right,  Ma?  We  began 
to  worry  about  you." 

"I'm  all  right.     I'm  going  to  bed." 

He  made  a  clumsy,  masculine  pretence  at  hearti 
ness.  "Lil  and  I  are  going  over  to  the  drug  store 
for  a  soda,  it's  so  hot.  Come  on  along,  Ma." 

Lil  joined  him  in  the  doorway  of  the  bedroom. 
Her  eyes  were  red-rimmed  behind  the  powder 
that  she  had  hastily  dabbed  on,  but  she  smiled 
bravely. 


110  HALF  PORTIONS 

"Come  on,  Mother,"  she  said.  "It'll  cool  you 
off/* 

But  Ma  Mandle  shook  her  head.  "I'm  better 
off  at  home.  You  run  along,  you  two." 

That  was  all.  But  the  two  standing  there 
caught  something  in  her  tone.  Something  new, 
something  gentle,  something  wise. 

She  went  on  down  the  hall  to  her  room.  She 
took  off  her  clothes,  and  hung  them  away,  neatly. 
But  once  in  her  nightgown  she  did  not  get  into 
bed.  She  sat  there,  in  the  chair  by  the  window. 
Old  lady  Mandle  had  lived  to  be  seventy  and  had 
acquired  much  wisdom.  One  cannot  live  to  be 
seventy  without  having  experienced  almost  every 
thing  in  life.  But  to  crystallize  that  experience 
of  a  long  lifetime  into  terms  that  would  express  the 
meaning  of  life — this  she  had  never  tried  to  do. 
She  could  not  do  it  now,  for  that  matter.  But 
she  groped  around,  painfully,  in  her  mind.  There 
had  been  herself  and  Hugo.  And  now  Hugo's 
wife  and  the  child  to  be.  They  were  the  ones  that 
counted,  now.  That  was  the  law  of  life.  She 
did  not  put  it  into  words.  But  something  of  this 
she  thought  as  she  sat  there  in  her  plain  white 
nightgown,  her  scant  white  locks  pinned  in  a  neat 
knob  at  the  top  of  her  head.  Selfishness.  That 
was  it.  They  called  it  love,  but  it  was  selfish 
ness.  She  must  tell  them  about  it  to-morrow — 


OLD  LADY  HANDLE  111 

Mrs.  Lamb,  Mrs.  Brunswick,  and  Mrs.  Wormser. 
Only  yesterday  Mrs.  Brunswick  had  waxed  bitter 
because  her  daughter-in-law  had  let  a  moth  get 
into  her  husband's  winter  suit. 

"I  never  had  a  moth  in  my  house!"  Mrs. 
Brunswick  had  declared.  "Never.  But  now 
adays  housekeeping  is  nothing.  A  suit  is  ruined. 
What  does  my  son's  wife  care !  I  never  had  a  moth 
in  my  house." 

Ma  Mandle  chuckled  to  herself  there  in  the 
darkness.  "I  bet  she  did.  She  forgets.  We  all 
forget." 

It  was  very  hot  to-night.  Now  and  then  there 
was  a  wisp  of  breeze  from  the  lake,  but  not  often. 
.  .  .  How  red  Lil's  eyes  had  been  .  . 
poor  girl.  Moved  by  a  sudden  impulse  Ma 
Mandle  thudded  down  the  hall  in  her  bare 
feet,  found  a  scrap  of  paper  in  the  writing-desk 
drawer,  scribbled  a  line  on  it,  turned  out  the  light, 
and  went  into  the  empty  front  room.  With  a  pin 
from  the  tray  on  the  dresser  she  fastened  the  note 
to  Lil's  pillow,  high  up,  where  she  must  see  it 
the  instant  she  turned  on  the  light.  Then  she 
scuttled  down  the  hall  to  her  room  again. 

She  felt  the  heat  terribly.  She  would  sit  by  the 
window  again.  All  the  blood  in  her  body  seemed 
to  be  pounding  in  her  head  .  .  .  pounding 
in  her  head  .  .  .  pounding  .  .  . 


HALF  PORTIONS 

At  ten  Hugo  and  Lil  came  in,  softly.  Hugo 
tiptoed  down  the  hall,  as  was  his  wont,  and  listened. 
The  room  was  in  darkness.  "Sleeping,  Ma?"  he 
whispered.  He  could  not  see  the  white-gowned 
figure  sitting  peacefully  by  the  window,  and  there 
was  no  answer.  He  tiptoed  with  painful  awkward 
ness  up  the  hall  again. 

"She's  asleep,  all  right.  I  didn't  think  she'd 
get  to  sleep  so  early  on  a  scorcher  like  this." 

Lil  turned  on  the  light  in  her  room.  "It's  too 
hot  to  sleep,"  she  said.  She  began  to  disrobe 
languidly.  Her  eye  fell  on  the  scrap  of  paper 
pinned  to  her  pillow.  She  went  over  to  it, 
curiously,  leaned  over,  read  it. 

"Oh,  look,  Hugo!"  She  gave  a  little  tremulous 
laugh  that  was  more  than  half  sob.  He  came  over 
to  her  and  read  it,  his  arm  around  her  shoulder. 

"My  son  Hugo  and  my  daughter  Lil  they  are 
the  best  son  and  daughter  in  the  world." 

A  sudden  hot  haze  before  his  eyes  blotted  out  the 
words  as  he  finished  reading  them. 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH 

WHEN  you  try  to  do  a  story  about  three 
people  like  Sid  Halm  and  Mizzi  Markis 
and  Wallie  Ascher  you  find  yourself  paw 
ing  around  among  the  personalities  helplessly.  For 
the  three  of  them  are  what  is  known  in  newspaper 
parlance  as  national  figures.  One  n.  f.  is  enough 
for  any  short  story.  Three  would  swamp  a  book. 
It's  like  one  of  those  plays  advertised  as  having  an 
all-star  cast.  By  the  time  each  luminary  has  come 
on,  and  been  greeted,  and  done  his  twinkling  the 
play  has  faded  into  the  background.  You  can't 
see  the  heavens  for  the  stars. 

Surely  Sid  Halm,  like  the  guest  of  honour  at  a 
dinner,  needs  no  introduction.  And  just  as  surely 
will  he  be  introduced.  He  has  been  described 
elsewhere  and  often;  perhaps  nowhere  more  con 
cisely  than  on  Page  16,  paragraph  two,  of  a  volume 
that  shall  be  nameless,  though  quoted,  thus: 

"Sid  Hahn,  erstwhile  usher,  call-boy,  press 
agent,  advance  man,  had  a  genius  for  things  theat 
rical.  It  was  inborn.  Dramatic,  sensitive,  artis 
tic,  intuitive,  he  was  often  rendered  inarticulate 
by  the  very  force  and  variety  of  his  feelings.  A 

113 


114  HALF  PORTIONS 

little,  rotund,  ugly  man,  with  the  eyes  of  a  dreamer, 
the  wide,  mobile  mouth  of  a  humourist,  the  ears 
of  a  comic  oF  clo'es  man.  His  generosity  was 
proverbial,  and  it  amounted  to  a  vice." 

Not  tJiat  that  covers  him.  No  one  paragraph 
could.  You  turn  a  fine  diamond  this  way  and 
that,  and  as  its  facets  catch  the  light  you  say, 
" It's  scarlet !  No — it's  blue!  No — rose! — orange! 
—lilac!— no " 

That  was  Sid  Hahn. 

I  suppose  he  never  really  sat  for  a  photograph 
and  yet  you  saw  his  likeness  in  all  the  magazines. 
He  was  snapped  on  the  street,  and  in  the  theatre, 
and  even  up  in  his  famous  library-study-office  on 
the  sixth  and  top  floor  of  the  Thalia  Theatre  Build 
ing.  Usually  with  a  fat  black  cigar — unlighted — 
in  one  corner  of  his  commodious  mouth.  Every 
one  interested  in  things  theatrical  (and  whom  does 
that  not  include!)  knew  all  about  Sid  Hahn — and 
nothing.  He  had  come,  a  boy,  from  one  of  those 
middle-western  towns  with  a  high-falutin  Greek 
name.  Parthenon,  Ohio,  or  something  incredible 
like  that.  No  one  knows  how  he  first  approached 
the  profession  which  he  was  to  dominate  in  Amer 
ica.  There's  no  record  of  his  having  asked  for  a 
job  in  a  theatre,  and  received  it.  He  oozed  into  it, 
indefinably,  and  moved  with  it,  and  became  a  part 
of  it  and  finally  controlled  it.  Satellites,  fur-col- 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH       115 

lared  and  pseudo-successful,  trailing  in  his  wake, 
used  to  talk  loudly  of  I-knew-him-when.  They 
all  lied.  It  had  been  Augustin  Daly,  dead  these 
many  years,  who  had  first  recognized  in  this  boy 
the  genius  for  discovering  and  directing  genius. 
Daly  was,  at  that  time,  at  the  zenith  of  his  career — 
managing,  writing,  directing,  producing.  He  fired 
the  imagination  of  this  stocky,  gargoyle-faced  boy 
with  the  luminous  eyes  and  the  humorous  mouth. 
I  don't  know  that  Sid  Hahn,  hanging  about  the 
theatre  in  every  kind  of  menial  capacity,  ever  said 
to  himself  in  so  many  words : 

"I'm  going  to  be  what  he  is.  I'm  going  to  con 
centrate  on  it.  I  won't  let  anything  or  anybody 
interfere  with  it.  Nobody  knows  what  I'm  going 
to  be.  But  I  know.  .  .  .  And  you've  got  to 
be  selfish.  You've  got  to  be  selfish." 

Of  course  no  one  ever  really  made  a  speech  like 
that  to  himself,  even  in  the  Horatio  Alger  books. 
But  if  the  great  ambition  and  determination  run 
ning  through  the  whole  fibre  of  his  being  could  have 
been  crystallized  into  spoken  words  they  would 
have  sounded  like  that. 

By  the  time  he  was  forty-five  he  had  dis 
covered  more  stars  than  Copernicus.  They  were 
not  all  first-magnitude  twinklers.  Some  of  them 
even  glowed  so  feebly  that  you  could  see  their 
light  only  when  he  stood  behind  them,  the  steady 


116  HALF  PORTIONS 

radiance  of  his  genius  shining  through.  But 
taken  as  a  whole  they  made  a  brilliant  constella 
tion,  furnishing  much  of  the  illumination  for  the 
brightest  thoroughfare  in  the  world. 

He  had  never  married.  There  are  those  who  say 
that  he  had  had  an  early  love  affair,  but  that  he 
had  sworn  not  to  marry  until  he  had  achieved 
what  he  called  success.  And  by  that  time  it  had 
been  too  late.  It  was  as  though  the  hot  flame  of 
ambition  had  burned  out  all  his  other  passions. 
Later  they  say  he  was  responsible  for  more  happy 
marriages  contracted  by  people  who  did  not 
know  that  he  was  responsible  for  them  than  a 
popular  east-side  shadchen.  He  grew  a  little 
tired,  perhaps,  of  playing  with  make-believe 
stage  characters,  and  directing  them,  so  he  be 
gan  to  play  with  real  ones,  like  God.  But  always 
kind. 

No  woman  can  resist  making  love  to  a  man  as 
indifferent  as  Sid  Hahn  appeared  to  be.  They  all 
tried  their  wiles  on  him:  the  red-haired  ingenues, 
the  blonde  soubrettes,  the  stately  leading  ladies, 
the  war  horses,  the  old-timers,  the  ponies,  the 
prima  donnas.  He  used  to  sit  there  in  his  great, 
luxurious,  book-lined  inner  office,  smiling  and  in 
scrutable  as  a  plump  joss-house  idol  while  the  fair 
ones  burnt  incense  and  made  offering  of  shew- 
bread.  Figuratively,  he  kicked  over  the  basket  of 


YOITVE  GOT  TO  'BE  SELFISH      117 

shew-bread,  and  of  the  incense  said,  "Take  away 
that  stuff!  It  smells!" 

Not  that  he  hated  women.  He  was  afraid  of 
them,  at  first.  Then,  from  years  of  experience 
with  the  femininity  of  the  theatre,  not  nearly 
afraid  enough.  So,  early,  he  had  locked  that  cor 
ner  of  his  mind,  and  had  thrown  away  the  key. 
When,  years  after,  he  broke  in  the  door,  lo!  (as 
they  say  when  an  elaborate  figure  of  speech  is 
being  used)  lo!  the  treasures  therein  had  turned 
to  dust  and  ashes. 

It  was  he  who  had  brought  over  from  Paris  to 
the  American  stage  the  famous  Renee  Paterne 
of  the  incorrigible  eyes.  She  made  a  fortune  and 
swept  the  country  with  her  song  about  those 
delinquent  orbs.  But  when  she  turned  them  on 
Hahn,  in  their  first  interview  in  his  office,  he 
regarded  her  with  what  is  known  as  a  long,  level 
look.  She  knew  at  that  time  not  a  word  of 
English.  Sid  Hahn  was  ignorant  of  French. 
He  said,  very  low,  and  with  terrible  calm  to 
Wallie  Ascher  who  was  then  acting  as  a  sort  of 
secretary,  "  Wallie,  can't  you  do  something  to  make 
her  stop  rolling  her  eyes  around  at  me  like  that? 
It's  awful!  She  makes  me  think  of  those  heads 
you  shy  balls  at,  out  at  Coney.  Take  away  my 
ink-well." 

Renee  had  turned  swiftly  to  Wallie  and  had  said 


118  HALF  PORTIONS 

something  to  him  in  French.  Sid  Hahn  cocked  a 
quick  ear.  "What's  that  she  said?" 

"She  says,"  translated  the  obliging  and  gifted 
Wallie,  "that  monsieur  is  a  woman-hater." 

"My  God!  I  thought  she  didn't  understand 
English!" 

"She  doesn't.  But  she's  a  woman.  Not  only 
that,  she's  a  French  woman.  They  don't  need  to 
know  a  language  to  understand  it." 

"Where  did  you  get  that,  h'm?  That  wasn't 
included  in  your  Berlitz  course,  was  it?" 

Wallie  Ascher  had  grinned — that  winning  flash 
lighting  up  his  dark,  keen  face.  "No.  I  learned 
that  in  another  school." 

Wallie  Ascher's  early  career  in  the  theatre,  if 
repeated  here,  might  almost  be  a  tiresome  repeti 
tion  of  Hahn's  beginning.  And  what  Augustin 
Daly  had  been  to  Sid  Hahn's  imagination  and 
ambition,  Sid  Hahn  was  to  Wallie's.  Wallie, 
though,  had  been  born  to  the  theatre — if  having  a 
tumbler  for  a  father  and  a  prestidigitator's  foil 
for  a  mother  can  be  said  to  be  a  legitimate  entrance 
into  the  world  of  the  theatre. 

He  had  been  employed  about  the  old  Thalia 
for  years  before  Hahn  noticed  him.  In  the  be 
ginning  he  was  a  spindle-legged  office  boy  in  the 
upstairs  suite  of  the  firm  of  Hahn  &  Lohman, 
theatrical  producers;  the  kind  of  office-boy  who  is 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH       119 

addicted  to  shrill,  clear  whistling  unless  very  firmly 
dealt  with.  No  one  in  the  outer  office  realized  how 
faultless,  how  rhythmic  were  the  arpeggios  and 
cadences  that  issued  from  those  expertly  puckered 
lips.  There  was  about  his  performance  an  un 
erring  precision.  As  you  listened  you  felt  that 
his  ascent  to  the  inevitable  high  note  was  a  thing 
impossible  of  achievement.  Up — up — up  he  would 
go,  while  you  held  your  breath  in  suspense.  And 
then  he  took  the  high  note — took  it  easily,  in- 
souciantly — held  it,  trilled  it,  tossed  it. 

"Now,  look  here,"  Miss  Feldman  would  snap — 
Miss  Feldman  of  the  outer  office  typewriter — 
"look  here,  you  kid.  Any  more  of  that  bird 
warbling  and  you  go  back  to  the  woods  where  you 
belong.  This  ain't  a— a " 

"Aviary,"  suggested  Wallie,  almost  shyly. 

Miss  Feldman  glared.  "How  did  you  know 
that  word?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  helplessly.  "  But  it's  the  word, 
isn't  it?" 

Miss  Feldman  turned  back  to  her  typewriter. 
"You're  too  smart  for  your  age,  you  are." 

"I  know  it,"  Wallie  had  agreed,  humbly. 

There's  no  telling  where  or  how  he  learned  to 
play  the  piano.  He  probably  never  did  learn. 
He  played  it,  though,  as  he  whistled — brilliantly. 
No  doubt  it  was  as  imitative  and  as  unconscious, 


120  HALF  PORTIONS 

too,  as  his  whistling  had  been.  They  say  he 
didn't  know  one  note  from  another,  and  doesn't 
to  this  day. 

At  twenty,  when  he  should  have  been  in  love 
with  at  least  three  girls,  he  had  fixed  in  his  mind  an 
image,  a  dream.  And  it  bore  no  resemblance  to 
twenty's  accepted  dreams.  At  that  time  he  was 
living  in  one  room  (rear)  of  a  shabby  rooming 
house  in  Thirty-ninth  Street.  And  this  was  the 
dream:  By  the  time  he  was — well,  long  before 
he  was  thirty — he  would  have  a  bachelor  apart 
ment  with  a  Jap,  Saki.  Saki  was  the  perfect 
servant,  noiseless,  unobtrusive,  expert.  He  saw 
little  dinners  just  for  four — or,  at  the  most,  six. 
And  Saki,  white-coated,  deft,  sliding  hot  plates 
when  plates  should  be  hot;  cold  plates  when  plates 
should  be  cold.  Then,  other  evenings,  alone, 
when  he  wanted  to  see  no  one — when,  in  a  silken 
lounging  robe  (over  faultless  dinner  clothes,  of 
course,  and  wearing  the  kind  of  collar  you  see  in  the 
back  of  the  magazines)  he  would  say,  "That  will 
do,  Saki."  Then,  all  evening,  he  would  play 
softly  to  himself  those  little,  intimate,  wistful 
Schumanny  things  in  the  firelight  with  just  one 
lamp  glowing  softly — almost  sombrely — at  the 
side  of  the  piano  (grand). 

His  first  real  meeting  with  Sid  Hahn  had  had 
much  to  do  with  the  fixing  of  this  image.  Of 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH       121 

course  he  had  seen  Hahn  hundreds  of  times  in  the 
office  and  about  the  theatre.  They  had  spoken, 
too,  many  times.  Hahn  called  him  vaguely, 
"Heh,  boy!"  but  he  grew  to  know  him  later  as 
Wallie.  From  errand-boy,  office-boy,  call-boy 
he  had  become,  by  that  time,  a  sort  of  unofficial 
assistant  stage  manager.  No  one  acknowledged 
that  he  was  invaluable  about  the  place,  but  he  was. 
When  a  new  play  was  in  rehearsal  at  the  Thalia, 
Wallie  knew  more  about  props,  business,  cues, 
lights,  and  lines  than  the  director  himself.  For  a 
long  time  no  one  but  Wallie  and  the  director  were 
aware  of  this.  The  director  never  did  admit  it. 
But  that  Hahn  should  find  it  out  was  inevitable. 

He  was  nineteen  or  thereabouts  when  he  was 
sent,  one  rainy  November  evening,  to  deliver  a 
play  manuscript  to  Hahn  at  his  apartment. 
Wallie  might  have  refused  to  perform  an  errand 
so  menial,  but  his  worship  of  Hahn  made  him  glad 
of  any  service,  however  humble.  He  buttoned 
his  coat  over  the  manuscript,  turned  up  his  collar, 
and  plunged  into  the  cold  drizzle  of  the  November 
evening. 

Hahn's  apartment — he  lived  alone — was  in  the 
early  fifties,  off  Fifth  Avenue.  For  two  days  he 
had  been  ill  with  one  of  the  heavy  colds  to  which  he 
was  subject.  He  was  unable  to  leave  the  house. 
Hence  Wallie's  errand. 


122  HALF  PORTIONS 

It  was  Saki — or  Saki's  equivalent — who  opened 
the  door.  A  white-coated,  soft-stepping  Jap,  world- 
old  looking  like  the  room  glimpsed  just  beyond. 
Someone  was  playing  the  piano  with  one  finger, 
horribly. 

"You're  to  give  this  to  Mr.  Hahn.  He's 
waiting  for  it." 

"Genelmun  come  in,"  said  the  Jap,  softly. 

"No,  he  don't  want  to  see  me.  Just  give  it  to 
him,  see?" 

"Genelmun  come  in."     Evidently  orders. 

"Oh,  all  right.  But  I  know  he  doesn't  want " 

Wallie  turned  down  his  collar  with  a  quick  flip, 
looked  doubtfully  at  his  shoes,  and  passed  through 
the  glowing  little  foyer  into  the  room  beyond. 
He  stood  in  the  doorway.  He  was  scarcely 
twenty  then,  but  something  in  him  sort  of  rose, 
and  gathered,  and  seethed,  and  swelled,  and  then 
hardened.  He  didn't  know  it  then  but  it  was  his 
great  resolve. 

Sid  Hahn  was  seated  at  the  piano,  a  squat, 
gnomelike  little  figure,  with  those  big  ears,  and 
that  plump  face,  and  those  soft  eyes — the  kindest 
eyes  in  the  world.  He  did  not  stop  playing  as 
Wallie  appeared.  He  glanced  up  at  him,  ever  so 
briefly,  but  kindly,  too,  and  went  on  playing  the 
thing  with  one  short  forefinger,  excruciatingly. 
Wallie  waited.  He  had  heard  somewhere  that 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH      123 

Hahn  would  sit  at  the  piano  thus,  for  hours,  the 
tears  running  down  his  cheeks  because  of  the 
beauty  of  the  music  he  could  remember  but  not 
reproduce;  and  partly  because  of  his  own  in 
ability  to  reproduce  it. 

The  stubby  little  forefinger  faltered,  stopped. 
He  looked  up  at  Wallie. 

"God,  I  wish  I  could  play!" 

"Helps  a  lot." 

"You  play?" 

"Yes." 

"What?" 

"Oh,  most  anything  IVe  heard  once.  And 
some  things  I  kind  of  make  up." 

"Compose,  you  mean?" 

"Yes." 

"Play  one  of  those." 

So  Wallie  Ascher  played  one  of  those.  Of 
course  you  know  "Good  Night — Pleasant  Dreams." 
He  hadn't  named  it  then.  It  wasn't  even  pub 
lished  until  almost  two  years  later,  but  that  was 
what  he  played  for  Sid  Hahn.  Since  "After  The 
Ball"  no  popular  song  has  achieved  the  success  of 
that  one.  No  doubt  it  was  cheap,  and  no  doubt 
it  was  sentimental,  but  so,  too,  are  "The  Suwan- 
nee  River"  and  "My  Old  Kentucky  Home,"  and 
they'll  be  singing  those  when  more  classical  songs 
have  long  been  forgotten.  As  Wallie  played  it  his 


124  HALF  PORTIONS 

dark,  thin  face  seemed  to  gleam  and  glow  in  the 
lamplight. 

When  he  had  finished  Sid  Hahn  was  silent  for  a 
moment.  Then,  "What're  you  going  to  do  with 
it?" 

"With  what?" 

"With  what  you've  got.     You  know." 

Wallie  knew  that  he  did  not  mean  the  song  he 
had  just  played.  "I'm  going  to — I'm  going  to  do 
a  lot  with  it." 

"Yeh,  but  how?" 

Wallie  was  looking  down  at  his  two  lean  brown 
hands  on  the  keys.  For  a  long  minute  he  did  not 
answer.  Then:  "By  thinking  about  it  all  the 
time.  And  working  like  hell.  .  .  .  And 
you've  got  to  be  selfish  .  .  .  You've  got  to  be 
selfish  .  .  ." 

As  Sid  Hahn  stared  at  him,  as  though  hypno 
tized,  the  Jap  appeared  in  the  doorway.  So 
Hahn  said,  "Stay  and  have  dinner  with  me," 
instead  of  what  he  had  meant  to  say. 

"Oh,  I  can't!  Thanks.  I "  He  wanted  to, 

terribly,  but  the  thought  was  too  much. 

"Better." 

They  had  dinner  together.  Even  under  the 
influence  of  Hahn's  encouragement  and  two 
glasses  of  mellow  wine  whose  name  he  did  not  know 
Wallie  did  not  become  fatuous.  They  talked 


YOV*VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH 

about  music — neither  of  them  knew  anything 
about  it,  really.  Wallie  confessed  that  he  used  it 
as  an  intoxicant  and  a  stimulant. 

"That's  it!"  cried  Hahn,  excitedly.  "If  I 
could  play  I'd  have  done  more.  More." 

"Why  don't  you  get  one  of  those  piano-play ers. 
What-you-caU'ems?"  Then,  immediately,  "No, 
of  course  not." 

"Nah,  that  doesn't  do  it,"  said  Hahn,  quickly. 
"That's  like  adopting  a  baby  when  you  can't 
have  one  of  your  own.  It  isn't  the  same.  It 
isn't  the  same.  It  looks  like  a  baby,  and  acts 
like  a  baby,  and  sounds  like  a  baby — but  it 
isn't  yours.  It  isn't  you.  That's  it!  It  isn't 
you!" 

"Yeh,"  agreed  Wallie,  nodding.  So  perfectly 
did  they  understand  each  other,  this  ill-assorted 
pair. 

It  was  midnight  before  Wallie  left.  They  had 
both  forgotten  about  the  play  manuscript  whose 
delivery  had  been  considered  so  important.  The 
big  room  was  gracious,  quiet,  soothing.  A  fire 
flickered  in  the  grate.  One  lamp  glowed  softly — 
almost  sombrely. 

As  Wrallie  rose  at  last  to  go  he  shook  himself 
slightly  like  one  coming  out  of  a  trance.  He 
looked  slowly  about  the  golden,  mellow  room. 
"Gee!" 


126  HALF  PORTIONS 

"Yes,  but  it  isn't  worth  it,"  said  Hahn,  "after 
you've  got  it." 

"That's  what  they  all  say"— grimly— "offer 
they've  got  it." 

The  thing  that  had  been  born  in  Sid  Hahn's 
mind  thirty  years  before  was  now  so  plainly 
stamped  on  this  boy's  face  that  Hahn  was  startled 
into  earnestness.  "But  I  tell  you,  it's  true! 
It's  true!" 

"Maybe.  Some  day,  when  I'm  living  in  a  place 
like  this,  I'll  let  you  know  if  you're  right." 

In  less  than  a  year  Wallie  Ascher  was  working 
with  Hahn.  No  one  knew  his  official  title  or 
place.  But  "Ask  Wallie.  He'll  know,"  had 
become  a  sort  of  slogan  in  the  office.  He  did 
know.  At  twenty-one  his  knowledge  of  the 
theatre  was  infallible  (this  does  not  include  plays 
unproduced;  in  this  no  one  is  infallible)  and 
his  feeling  for  it  amounted  to  a  sixth  sense.  There 
was  something  uncanny  abput  the  way  he  could 
talk  about  Lottie,  for  example,  as  if  he  had  seen 
her;  or  Mrs.  Siddons;  or  Mrs.  Fiske  when  she  was 
Minnie  Maddern,  the  soubrette.  It  was  as 
though  he  had  the  power  to  cast  himself  back  into 
the  past.  No  doubt  it  was  that  power  which  gave 
later  to  his  group  of  historical  plays  (written  by 
him  between  the  ages  of  thirty  and  thirty-five) 
their  convincingness  and  authority. 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH      127 

When  Wallie  was  about  twenty-three  or  -four 
Sid  Hahn  took  him  abroad  on  one  of  his  annual 
scouting  trips.  Yearly,  in  the  spring,  Halm 
swooped  down  upon  London,  Paris,  Vienna,  Ber 
lin,  seeking  that  of  the  foreign  stage  which  might 
be  translated,  fumigated,  desiccated,  or  otherwise 
rendered  suitable  for  home  use.  He  sent  Wallie 
on  to  Vienna,  alone,  on  the  trail  of  a  musical 
comedy  rumoured  to  be  a  second  Merry  Widow  in 
tunefulness,  chic,  and  charm.  Of  course  it  wasn't. 
Merry  Widows  rarely  repeat.  Wallie  wired  Hahn, 
as  arranged.  The  telegram  is  unimportant,  per 
haps,  but  characteristic. 

MR.  SID.  HAHN, 
Hotel  Savoy, 
London, 
England. 

It's  a  second  all  right  but  not  a  second  Merry  Widow.  Heard 
of  a  winner  in  Budapest.  Shall  I  go.  Spent  to-day  from  eleven 
to  five  running  around  the  Ringstrasse  looking  for  mythical 
creature  known  as  the  chic  Viennese.  After  careful  investi 
gation  wish  to  be  quoted  as  saying  the  species  if  any  is  extinct. 

WALLIE. 

This,  remember,  was  in  the  year  1913,  B.W. 
Wallie,  obeying  instructions,  went  to  Budapest, 
witnessed  the  alleged  winner,  found  it  as  adver 
tised,  wired  Hahn  to  that  effect,  and  was  joined  by 
that  gentleman  three  days  later. 


128  HALF  PORTIONS 

Budapest,  at  that  time,  was  still  Little  Paris, 
only  wickeder.  A  city  of  magnificent  buildings, 
and  unsalted  caviar,  and  beautiful,  dangerous 
women,  and  frumpy  men  (civilian)  and  dashing 
officers  in  red  pants,  and  Cigany  music,  and  cafes 
and  paprika  and  two-horse  droshkies.  Buda,  low 
and  flat,  lay  on  one  side;  Pest,  high  and  hilly, 
perched  picturesquely  on  the  other.  Between  the 
two  rolled  the  Blue  Danube  (which  is  yellow) . 

It  was  here  that  Hahn  and  Wallie  found  Mizzi 
Markis.  Mizzi  Markis,  then  a  girl  of  nineteen, 
was  a  hod  carrier. 

Wallie  had  three  days  in  Budapest  before  Hahn 
met  him  there.  As  the  manager  stepped  from  the 
train,  looking  geometrically  square  in  a  long  ulster 
that  touched  his  ears  and  his  heels,  Wallie  met 
him  with  a  bound. 

"Hello,  S.  H.!  Great  to  see  you!  Say,  listen, 
I've  found  something.  I've  found  something 
big!" 

Hahn  had  never  seen  the  boy  so  excited.  "Oh, 
shucks!  No  play's  as  good  as  that." 

"Play!    It  isn't  a  play." 

"Why,  you  young  idiot,  you  said  it  was  good! 
You  said  it  was  darned  good !  You  don't  mean  to 
tell  me " 

"Oh,  that!  That's  all  right.  It's  good—or 
will  be  when  you  get  through  with  it." 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH 

"What  you  talking  about  then?  Here,  let's 
take  one  of  these  things  with  two  horses.  Gee, 
you  ought  to  smoke  a  fat  black  seegar  and  wear 
a  silk  hat  when  you  ride  in  one  of  these!  I  feel 
like  a  parade."  He  was  like  a  boy  on  a  holiday, 
as  always  when  in  Europe. 

"But  let  me  tell  you  about  this  girl,  won't 
you!" 

"Oh,  it's  a  girl!  What's  her  name?  t  What's 
she  do?" 

"Her  name's  Mizzi." 

"Mizziwhat?" 

"I  don't  know.     She's  a  hod  carrier.   She " 

"That's  all  right,  Wallie.  I'm  here  now.  An 
ice  bag  on  your  head  and  real  quiet  for  two-three 
days.  You'll  come  round  fine." 

But  Wallie  was  almost  sulking.  "Wait  till 
you  see  her,  S.  H.  She  sings." 

"Beautiful,  is  she?" 

"No,  not  particularly.     No." 

"Wonderful  voice,  h'm?" 

"N-n-no.  I  wouldn't  say  it  was  what  you'd 
call  exactly  wonderful." 

Sid  Hahn  stood  up  in  the  droshky  and  waved  his 
short  arms  in  windmill  circles.  "Well,  what  the 
devil  does  she  do  then,  that's  so  good?  Carry 
bricks!" 

"She  is  good  at  that.     When  she  balances  that 


130  HALF  PORTIONS 

» 

pail  of  mortar  on  her  head  and  walks  off  with  it, 

her  arms  hanging  straight  at  her  sides " 

But  Sid  Hahn's  patience  was  at  an  end.  "You're 
a  humourist,  you  are.  If  I  didn't  know  you  I'd 
say  you  were  drunk.  I'll  bet  you  are,  anyway. 
You've  been  eating  paprika,  raw.  You  make  me 
sick." 

Inelegant,  but  expressive  of  his  feelings.  But 
Wallie  only  said,  "You  wait.  You'll  see." 

Sid  Hahn  did  see.  He  saw  next  day.  Wallie 
woke  him  out  of  a  sound  sleep  so  that  he  might 
see.  It  was  ten-thirty  A.  M.  so  that  his  peevishness 
was  unwarranted.  They  had  seen  the  play  the 
night  before  and  Hahn  had  decided  that,  trans 
lated  and  with  interpolations  (it  was  a  comic 
opera),  it  would  captivate  New  York.  Then  and 
there  he  completed  the  negotiations  which  Wallie 
had  begun.  Hahn  was  all  for  taking  the  first 
train  out,  but  Wallie  was  firm.  "You've  got  to 
see  her,  I  tell  you.  You've  got  to  see  her." 

Their  hotel  faced  the  Corso.  The  Corso  is  a 
wide  promenade  that  runs  along  the  Buda  bank 
of  the  Danube.  Across  the  river,  on  the  hill,  the 
royal  palace  looks  down  upon  the  little  common 
people.  In  that  day  the  monde  and  the  demi 
monde  of  Budapest  walked  on  the  Corso  between 
twelve  and  one.  Up  and  down.  Up  and  down. 
The  women,  tall,  dark,  flashing-eyed,  daringly 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH      131 

dressed.  The  men  sallow,  meagre,  and  wearing 
those  trousers  which,  cut  very  wide  and  flappy  at 
the  ankles,  make  them  the  dowdiest  men  in  the 
world.  Hahn's  room  and  Wallie's  were  on  the 
second  floor  of  the  hotel,  and  at  a  corner.  One 
set  of  windows  faced  the  Corso,  the  river,  and  Pest 
on  the  hill.  The  other  set  looked  down  upon  a 
new  building  being  erected  across  the  way.  It 
was  on  this  building  that  Mizzi  Markis  worked 
as  hod  carrier. 

The  war  accustomed  us  to  a  million  women  in 
overalls  doing  the  work  of  a  million  men.  We 
saw  them  ploughing,  juggling  steel  bars,  making 
shells,  running  engines,  stoking  furnaces,  handling 
freight.  But  to  these  two  American  men,  at  that 
time,  the  thing  at  which  these  labouring  women 
were  employed  was  dreadful  and  incredible. 

Said  Wallie:  "By  the  time  we've  dressed,  and 
had  breakfast,  and  walked  a  little  and  everything, 
it'll  be  almost  noon.  And  noon's  the  time.  After 
they've  eaten  their  lunch.  But  I  want  you  to  see 
her  before." 

By  now  his  earnestness  had  impressed  Hahn 
who  still  feigned  an  indifference  he  did  not  feel. 
It  was  about  11:30  when  Wallie  propelled  him  by 
the  arm  to  the  unfinished  building  across  the  way. 
And  there  he  met  Mizzi. 

They  were  just  completing  the  foundation.  The 


132  HALF  PORTIONS 

place  was  a  busy  hive.  Back  and  forth  with  pails. 
Back  and  forth  with  loads  of  bricks. 

" What's  the  matter  with  the  men?"  was  Hahn's 
first  question. 

Wallie  explained.  "They  do  the  dainty  work. 
They  put  one  brick  on  top  of  the  other,  with  a  dab 
•of  mortar  between.  But  none  of  the  back-break 
ing  stuff  for  them.  The  women  do  that." 

And  it  was  so.  They  were  down  in  the  pits 
mixing  the  mortar,  were  the  women.  They  were 
carrying  great  pails  of  it.  They  were  hauling 
bricks  up  one  ladder  and  down.  They  wore  short, 
full  skirts  with  a  musical-comedy-chorus  effect. 
Some  of  them  looked  seventy  and  some  seventeen. 
It  was  fearful  work  for  a  woman.  A  keen  wind 
was  blowing  across  the  river.  Their  hands  were 
purple. 

"Pick  Mizzi,"  said  Wallie.  "If  you  can  pick 
her  I'll  know  I'm  right.  But  I  know  it,  anyway." 

Five  minutes  passed.  The  two  men  stood 
silent.  "The  one  with  the  walk  and  the  face," 
said  Hahn,  then.  Which  wasn't  very  bright  of 
him,  because  they  all  walked  and  they  all  had 
faces.  "Going  up  the  pit-ladder  now.  With 
the  pail  on  her  head."  Wallie  gave  a  little  laugh 
of  triumph.  But  then,  Hahn  wouldn't  have  been 
Hahn  had  he  not  been  able  to  pick  a  personality 
when  he  saw  it. 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH      133 

• 

Years  afterward  the  reviewers  always  talked  of 
Mizzi's  walk.  They  called  it  her  superb  carriage. 
They  didn't  know  that  you  have  to  walk  .very 
straight,  on  the  balls  of  your  feet,  with  your  hips 
firm,  your  stomach  held  in  flat,  your  shoulders 
back,  your  chest  out,  your  chin  out  and  a  little 
down,  if  you  are  going  to  be  at  all  successful  in 
balancing  a  pail  of  mortar  on  your  head.  After  a 
while  that  walk  becomes  a  habit. 

"Watch  her  with  that  pail,"  said  Wallie. 

Mizzi  filled  the  pail  almost  to  the  top  with  the 
heavy  white  mixture.  She  filled  it  quickly,  ex 
pertly.  The  pail,  filled,  weighed  between  seven 
teen  and  twenty  kilos.  One  kilo  is  equal  to  about 
two  and  one  fifth  pounds.  The  girl  threw  down 
her  scoop,  stooped,  grasped  the  pail  by  its  two 
handles,  and  with  one  superb,  unbroken  motion 
raised  the  pail  high  in  her  two  strong  arms  and 
placed  it  on  her  head.  Then  she  breathed  deeply, 
once,  set  her  whole  figure,  turned  stiffly,  and  was 
off  with  it.  Sid  Hahn  took  on  a  long  breath  as 
though  he  himself  had  just  accomplished  the 
gymnastic  feat. 

"Well,  so  far  it's  pretty  good.  But  I  don't 
know  that  the  American  stage  is  clamouring  for 
any  hod  carriers  and  mortar  mixers,  exactly." 

A  whistle  blew.  Twelve  o'clock.  Bricks,  mor 
tar,  scoops*  shovels  were  abandoned.  The  women, 


134  HALF  PORTIONS 

in  their  great  clod-hopping  shoes,  flew  chattering 
to  the  tiny  hut  where  their  lunch  boxes  were  stored. 
The  men  followed  more  slowly,  a  mere  handful  of 
them.  Not  one  of  them  wore  overalls  or  apron. 
Out  again  with  their  bundles  and  boxes  of  food — • 
very  small  bundles.  Very  tiny  boxes.  They  ate 
ravenously  the  bread  and  sausage  and  drank  their 
beer  in  great  gulps.  Fifteen  minutes  after  the 
whistle  had  blown  the  last  crumb  had  vanished. 

"Now,  then,"  said  Wallie,  and  guided  Hahn 
nearer.  He  looked  toward  Mizzi.  Everyone 
looked  toward  her.  Mizzi  stood  up,  brushing 
crumbs  from  her  lap.  She  had  a  little  four-cor 
nered  black  shawl,  folded  cross-wise,  over  her  head 
and  tied  under  her  chin.  Her  face  was  round  and 
her  cheeks  red.  The  shawl,  framing  this,  made 
her  look  very  young  and  cherubic. 

She  did  not  put  her  hands  on  her  hips,  or  do  any 
of  those  story-book  things.  She  grinned,  broadly, 
showing  strong  white  teeth  made  strong  and  white 
through  much  munching  of  coarse  black  bread; 
not  yet  showing  the  neglect  common  to  her  class. 
She  asked  a  question  in  a  loud,  clear  voice. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Hahn. 

"She's  talking  a  kind  of  hunky  Hungarian,  I 
guess.  The  people  here  won't  speak  German, 
did  you  know  that?  They  hate  it." 

The  crowd  shouted  back  with  one  voice.     They 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH      135 

settled  themselves  comfortably,  sitting  or  stand 
ing.  Their  faces  held  the  broad  smile  of  anticipa 
tion. 

"She  asked  them  what  they  want  her  to  sing. 
They  told  her.  It's  the  same  every  day." 

Mizzi  Markis  stood  there  before  them  in  the 
mud,  and  clay,  and  straw  of  the  building  debris. 
And  she  sang  for  them  a  Hungarian  popular  song 
of  the  day  which,  translated,  sounds  idiotic  and 
which  runs  something  like  this: 

A  hundred  geese  in  a  row 
Going  into  the  coop. 
At  the  head  of  the  procession 
A  stick  over  his  shoulder 

No,  you  can't  do  it.  It  means  less  than  noth 
ing  that  way,  and  certainly  would  not  warrant  the 
shrieks  of  mirth  that  came  from  the  audience 
gathered  round  the  girl.  Still,  when  you  recall 
the  words  of  "A  Hot  Time": 

When  you  hear  dem  bells  go  ding-ling-ling, 
All  join  round  and  sweetly  you  must  sing 
And  when  the  words  am  through  in  the  chorus  all  join  in 
There  '11  be  a  hot  time 
In  the  old  town 
To-night. 
My 
Ba- 
By. 


136  HALF  PORTIONS 

And  yet  it  swept  this  continent,  and  Europe,  and 
in  Japan  they  still  think  it's  our  national  anthem. 

When  she  had  finished,  the  crowd  gave  a  roar 
of  delight,  and  clapped  their  hands,  and  stamped 
their  feet,  and  shouted.  She  had  no  unusual 
beauty.  Her  voice  was  untrained  though  pos 
sessed  of  strength  and  flexibility.  It  wasn't  what 
she  had  sung,  surely.  You  heard  the  song  in  a 
hundred  cafes.  Every  street  boy  whistled  it.  It 
wasn't  that  expressive  pair  of  shoulders,  exactly. 
It  wasn't  a  certain  soothing  tonal  quality  that 
made  you  forget  all  the  things  you'd  been  trying 
not  to  remember. 

There  is  something  so  futile  and  unconvincing 
about  an  attempted  description  of  an  intangible 
thing.  Some  call  it  personality;  some  call  it 
magnetism;  some  a  rhythm  sense;  and  some,  gen 
ius.  It's  all  these  things,  and  none  of  them.  What 
ever  it  is,  she  had  it.  And  whatever  it  is,  Sid 
Hahn  has  never  failed  to  recognize  it. 

So  now  he  said,  quietly,  "She's  got  it." 

"You  bet  she's  got  it!"  from  Wallie.  "She's 
got  more  than  Renee  Paterne  ever  had.  A  year 
of  training  and  some  clothes " 

"You  don't  need  to  tell  me.  I'm  in  the  theat 
rical  business,  myself." 

"I'm  sorry,"  stiffly. 

But  Hahn,  too,  was  sorry  immediately.     "You 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH      137 

know  how  I  am,  Wallie.  I  like  to  run  a  thing  off 
by  myself.  What  do  you  know  about  her?  Find 
out  anything?  " 

"Well,  a  little.  She  doesn't  seem  to  have  any 
people.  And  she's  decent.  Kind  of  a  fierce  kid, 
I  guess,  and  fights  when  offended.  They  say  she's 
Polish,  not  Hungarian.  Her  mother  was  a  peasant. 
Her  father — nobody  knows.  I  had  a  dickens  of  a 
time  finding  out  anything.  The  most  terrible 
language  in  the  world — Hungarian.  They'll  stick 
a  6  next  to  a  k  and  follow  it  up  with  a  z  and  put  aa 
accent  mark  over  the  whole  business  and  call  it  a 
word.  Last  night  I  followed  her  home.  And 
guess  what!" 

"What?"  said  Hahn,  obligingly. 

"On  her  way  she  had  to  cross  the  big  square — 
the  one  they  call  Gisela  Ter,  with  all  the  shops 
around  it.  Well,  when  she  came  to  Gerbeaud's " 

"  What's  Gerbeaud's?" 

"That's  the  famous  tea  room  and  pastry  shop 
where  all  the  swells  go  and  guzzle  tea  with  rum  in  it 
and  eat  cakes — and  say!  It  isn't  like  our  pastry 
that  tastes  like  sawdust  covered  with  shaving  soap. 
Marvellous  stuff,  this  is!" 

After  all,  he  was  barely  twenty-four.  So  Hahn 
said,  good-naturedly,  "All  right,  all  right.  We'll 
go  there  this  afternoon  and  eat  an  acre  of  it.  Go 
on.  When  she  came  to  Gerbeaud's  .  .  ?" 


138  HALF  PORTIONS 

"  Well,  when  she  came  to  Gerbeaud's  she  stopped 
and  stood  there,  outside.  There  was  a  strip  of 
red  carpet  from  the  door  to  the  street.  You 
know — the  kind  they  have  at  home  when  there's 
a  wedding  on  Fifth  Avenue.  There  she  stood  at 
the  edge  of  the  carpet,  waiting,  her  face,  framed 
in  that  funny  little  black  shawl,  turned  toward  the 
window,  and  the  tail  of  the  little  shawl  kind  of 
waggling  in  the  wind.  It  was  cold  and  nippy. 
I  waited,  too.  Finally  I  sort  of  strolled  over  to  her 
— I  knew  she  couldn't  any  more  than  knock  me 
down — and  said,  kind  of  casual,  'What's  doing?' 
She  looked  up  at  me,  like  a  kid,  in  that  funny 
shawl.  She  knew  I  was  an  Englees,  right  away. 
I  guess  I  must  have  a  fine,  open  countenance. 
And  I  had  motioned  toward  the  red  carpet,  and 
the  crowded  windows.  Anyway,  she  opens  up 
with  a  regular  burst  of  fireworks  Hungarian,  in 
that  deep  voice  of  hers.  Not  only  that,  she  acted 
it  out.  In  two  seconds  she  had  on  an  imaginary 
coronet  and  a  court  train.  And  haughty!  Gosh! 
I  was  sort  of  stumped,  but  I  said,  'You  don't  say!' 
and  waited  some  more.  And  then  they  flung  open 
the  door  of  the  tea  shop  thing.  At  the  same 
moment  up  dashed  an  equipage — you  couldn't 
possibly  call  it  anything  less — with  flunkeys  all 
over  the  outside,  like  trained  monkeys.  The 
people  inside  the  shop  stood  up,  with  their  mouths 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH      139 

full  of  cake,  and  out  came  an  old  frump  with  a 
terrible  hat  and  a  fringe.  And  it  was  the  Arch 
duchess,  and  her  name  is  Josef  a." 

"Your  story  interests  me  strangely,  boy," 
Hahn  said,  grinning,  "but  I  don't  quite  make  you. 
Do  archduchesses  go  to  tea  rooms  for  tea?  And 
what's  that  got  to  do  with  our  gifted  little  hod 
carrier?" 

"This  duchess  does.  Believe  me,  those  tarts 
are  good  enough  for  the  Queen  of  Hearts,  let  alone 
a  duchess,  no  matter  how  arch.  But  the  plot  of 
the  piece  is  this.  The  duchess  person  goes  to 
Gerbeaud's  about  twice  a  week.  And  they  always 
spread  a  red  carpet  for  her.  And  Mizzi  always 
manages  to  cut  away  in  time  to  stand  there  in 
front  of  Gerbeaud's  and  see  her  come  out.  She's 
a  gorgeous  mimic,  that  little  kid.  And  though  I 
couldn't  understand  a  word  she  said  I  managed  to 
get  out  of  it  just  this:  That  some  day  they're 
going  to  spread  a  red  carpet  for  Mizzi  and  she's 
going  to  walk  down  it  in  glory.  If  you'd  seen  her 
face  when  she  said  it,  S.  H.,  you  wouldn't  laugh." 

"I  wouldn't  laugh  anyway,"  said  Hahn, 
seriously. 

And  that's  the  true  story  of  Mizzi  Markis's 
beginning.  Few  people  know  it. 

There  they  were,  the  three  of  them.     And  of  the 


140  HALF  PORTIONS 

three,  Mizzi's  ambition  seemed  to  be  the  fiercest, 
the  most  implacable.  She  worked  like  a  horse, 
cramming  English,  French,  singing.  In  some 
things  she  was  like  a  woman  of  thirty;  in  others 
a  child  of  ten.  Her  gratitude  to  Hahn  was 
pathetic.  No  one  ever  doubted  that  he  was  in 
love  with  her  almost  from  the  first — he  who  had 
resisted  the  professional  beauties  of  three  decades. 

You  know  she  wasn't — and  isn't — a  beauty, 
even  in  that  portrait  of  her  by  Sargent,  with  her 
two  black-haired,  stunning-looking  boys,  one  on 
either  side.  But  she  was  one  of  those  gorgeously 
healthy  women  whose  very  presence  energizes 
those  with  whom  she  comes  in  contact.  And 
then  there  was  about  her  a  certain  bounteousness. 
There's  no  other  word  for  it,  really.  She  reminded 
you  of  those  gracious  figures  you  see  posed  for 
pictures  entitled  "Autumn  Harvest." 

While  she  was  studying  she  had  a  little  apart 
ment  with  a  middle-aged  woman  to  look  after  her, 
and  she  must  have  been  a  handful.  A  born  cook, 
she  was,  and  Hahn  and  Wallie  used  to  go  there  to 
dinner  whenever  she  would  let  them.  She  cooked 
it  herself.  Hahn  would  give  up  any  engagement 
for  a  dinner  at  Mizzi's.  When  he  entered  her 
little  sitting  room  his  cares  seemed  to  drop  from 
him.  She  never  got  over  cutting  bread  as  the 
peasant  women  do  it — the  loaf  held  firmly  against 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH      141 

her  breast,  the  knife  cutting  toward  her.  Hahn 
used  to  watch  her  and  laugh.  Sometimes  she  would 
put  on  the  little  black  head-shawl  of  her  Budapest 
days  and  sing  the  street-song  about  the  hundred 
geese  in  a  row.  A  delightful,  impudent  figure. 

With  the  very  first  English  she  learned  she  told 
Hahn  and  Wallie  that  some  day  they  were  going 
to  spread  a  fine  red  carpet  for  her  to  tread  upon 
and  that  all  the  world  would  gaze  on  her  with  envy. 
It  was  in  her  mind  a  symbol  typifying  all  that 
there  was  of  earthly  glory. 

"It'll  be  a  long  time  before  they  do  any  red 
carpeting  for  you,  my  girl,"  Sid  Hahn  had  said. 

She  turned  on  him  fiercely.  "I  will  not  rest — 
I  will  not  eat — I  will  not  sleep — I  will  not  love — 
until  I  have  it." 

Which  was,  of  course,  an  exaggerated  absurdity. 

"Oh,  what  rot!"  Wallie  Ascher  had  said,  an 
grily,  and  then  he  had  thought  of  his  own  symbol 
of  success,  and  his  own  resolve.  And  his  face  had 
hardened.  Sid  Hahn  looked  at  the  two  of  them; 
very  young,  both  of  them,  very  gifted,  very  elec 
tric.  Very  much  in  love  with  each  other,  though 
neither  would  admit  it  even  in  their  own  minds. 
Both  their  stern  young  faces  set  toward  the  goal 
which  they  thought  meant  happiness. 

Now,  Sid  Hahn  had  never  dabbled  in  this  new 
stuff — you  know — complexes  and  fixed  ideas  and 


142  HALF  PORTIONS 

images.  But  he  was  a  very  wise  man,  and  he  did 
know  to  what  an  extent  these  two  were  possessed 
by  ambition  for  that  which  they  considered  de 
sirable. 

He  must  have  thought  it  over  for  weeks.  He 
was  in  love  with  Mizzi,  remember.  And  his  fond 
ness  for  Wallie  was  a  thing  almost  paternal.  He 
watched  these  two  for  a  long,  long  time,  a  queer, 
grim  little  smile  on  his  gargoyle  face.  And  then 
his  mind  was  made  up.  He  had  always  had  his 
own  way.  He  must  have  had  a  certain  terrible 
enjoyment  in  depriving  himself  of  the  one  thing 
he  wanted  most  in  the  world — the  one  thing  he 
wanted  more  than  he  had  ever  wanted  anything. 

He  decided  that  Destiny — a  ponderous,  slow- 
moving  creature  at  best — needed  a  little  prodding 
from  him.  His  plans  were  simple,  as  all  effective 
plans  are. 

Mizzi  had  been  in  America  just  a  year  and  a 
half.  Her  development  was  amazing,  but  she  was 
far  from  being  the  finished  product  that  she  be 
came  in  later  years.  Halm  decided  to  chance  it. 
Mizzi  had  no  fear  of  audiences.  He  had  tried 
her  out  on  that.  An  audience  stimulated  her. 
She  took  it  to  her  breast.  She  romped  with  it. 

He  found  a  play  at  last.  A  comedy,  with  music. 
It  was  frankly  built  for  Mizzi.  He  called  Wallie 
Ascher  into  his  office. 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH       143 

"I  wouldn't  try  her  out  here  for  a  million.  New 
York's  too  fly.  Some  little  thing  might  be 
wrong — you  know  how  they  are.  And  all  the  rest 
would  go  for  nothing.  The  kindest  audience  in  the 
world — when  they  like  you.  And  the  cruelest 
when  they  don't.  We'll  go  on  the  road  for  two 
weeks.  Then  we'll  open  at  the  Blackstone  in 
Chicago.  I  think  this  girl  has  got  more  real  genius 
than  any  woman  since — since  Bernhardt  in  her 
prime.  Five  years  from  now  she  won't  be  singing. 
She'll  be  acting.  And  it'll  be  acting." 

"Aren't  you  forcing  things  just  a  little?"  asked 
Wallie,  coolly. 

"Oh,  no.  No.  Anyway,  it's  just  a  try-out. 
By  the  way,  Wallie,  I'll  probably  be  gone  almost 
a  month.  If  things  go  pretty  well  in  Chicago  I'll 
run  over  to  French  Lick  for  eight  or  ten  days  and 
see  if  I  can't  get  a  little  of  this  stiffness  out  of  my 
old  bones.  Will  you  do  something  for  me?" 

"Sure." 

"Pack  a  few  clothes  and  go  up  to  my  place  and 
live  there,  will  you?  The  Jap  stays  on,  anyway. 
The  last  time  I  left  it  alone  things  went  wrong. 
You'll  be  doing  me  a  favour.  Take  it  and  play  the 
piano,  and  have  your  friends  in,  and  boss  the  Jap 
around.  He's  stuck  on  you,  anyway.  Says  he 
likes  to  hear  you  play." 

He  stayed  away  six  weeks.     And  any  one  who 


144  HALF  PORTIONS 

knows  him  knows  what  hardship  that  was.  He 
loved  New  York,  and  his  own  place,  and  his  com 
fort,  and  his  books;  and  hotel  food  gave  him  hid 
eous  indigestion. 

Mizzi 's  first  appearance  was  a  moderate  success. 
It  was  nothing  like  the  sensation  of  her  later  ef 
forts.  She  wasn't  ready,  and  Hahn  knew  it. 
Mizzi  and  her  middle-aged  woman  companion  were 
installed  at  the  Blackstone  Hotel,  which  is  just 
next  door  to  the  Blackstone  Theatre,  as  any  one 
is  aware  who  knows  Chicago.  She  was  advertised 
as  the  Polish  comedienne,  Mizzi  Markis,  and  the 
announcements  hinted  at  her  royal  though  remote 
ancestry.  And  on  the  night  the  play  opened,  as 
Mizzi  stepped  from  the  entrance  of  her  hotel  on  her 
way  to  the  stage  door,  just  forty  or  fifty  feet  away, 
there  she  saw  stretched  on  the  pavement  a  scarlet 
path  of  soft-grained  carpet  for  her  feet  to  tread. 
From  the  steps  of  the  hotel  to  the  stage  door  of 
the  theatre,  there  it  lay,  a  rosy  line  of  splendour. 

The  newspapers  played  it  up  as  a  publicity 
stunt.  Every  night,  while  the  play  lasted,  the 
carpet  was  there.  It  was  rolled  up  when  the 
stage  door  closed  upon  her.  It  was  unrolled  and 
spread  again  when  she  came  out  after  the  per 
formance.  Hahn  never  forgot  her  face  when  she 
first  saw  it,  and  realized  its  significance.  The 
look  was  there  on  the  second  night,  and  on  the 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH      145 

third,  but  after  that  it  faded,  vanished,  and  never 
came  again.  Mizzi  had  tasted  of  the  golden  fruit 
and  found  it  dry  and  profitless,  without  nourish 
ment  or  sweetness. 

The  show  closed  in  the  midst  of  a  fairly  good 
run.  It  closed  abruptly,  without  warning.  To 
gether  they  came  back  to  New  York.  Just  out 
side  New  York  Hahn  knocked  at  the  door  of 
Mizzi's  drawing  room  and  stuck  his  round,  ugly 
face  in  at  the  opening. 

"Let's  surprise  Wallie,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Mizzi,  listlessly. 

"He  doesn't  know  the  show's  closed.  We'll 
take  a  chance  on  his  being  home  for  dinner.  Un 
less  you're  too  tired." 

"I'm  not  tired." 

The  Jap  admitted  them,  and  Hahn  cut  off  his 
staccato  exclamations  with  a  quick  and  smother 
ing  hand.  They  tiptoed  into  the  big,  gracious, 
lamp-lighted  room. 

Wallie  was  seated  at  the  piano.  He  had  on  a 
silk  dressing  gown  with  a  purple  cord.  One  of 
those  dressing  gowns  you  see  in  the  haberdashers' 
windows,  and  wonder  who  buys  them.  He  looked 
very  tall  in  it,  and  rather  distinguished,  but  not 
quite  happy.  He  was  playing  as  they  came  in. 
They  said,  "Boo!"  or  something  idiotic  like  that. 
He  stood  up.  And  his  face! 


146  HALF  PORTIONS 

"Why,  hello!"  he  said,  and  came  forward, 
swiftly.  "Hello!  Hello!" 

"Hello!"  Hahn  answered;  "Not  to  say  hello- 
hello." 

Wallie  looked  at  the  girl.     "Hello,  Mizzi." 

"Hello,"  said  Mizzi. 

"For  God's  sake  stop  saying  'hello!'"  roared 
Hahn. 

They  both  looked  at  him  absently,  and  then  at 
each  other  again. 

Hahn  flung  his  coat  and  hat  at  the  Jap  and  rub 
bed  his  palms  briskly  together.  "Well,  how  did 
you  like  it?"  he  said,  and  slapped  Wallie  on  the 
back.  "How'd  you  like  it — the  place  I  mean,  and 
the  Jap  boy  and  all?  H'm?" 

"Very  much,"  Wallie  answered,  formally. 
"Very  nice." 

"You'll  be  having  one  of  your  own  some  day, 
soon.  That's  sure." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Wallie,  indifferently. 

"I  would  like  to  go  home,"  said  Mizzi,  suddenly, 
in  her  precise  English. 

At  that  Wallie  leaped  out  of  his  lounging 
coat.  "I'll  take  you!  I'll— I'll  be  glad  to  take 
you." 

Hahn  smiled  a  little,  ruefully.  "We  were  going 
to  have  dinner  here,  the  three  of  us.  But  if 
you're  tired,  Mizzi.  I'm  not  so  chipper  myself 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH      147 

when  it  comes  to  that."  He  looked  about  the 
room,  gratefully.  "It's  good  to  be  home." 

Wallie,  hat  in  hand,  was  waiting  in  the  doorway, 
Mizzi,  turning  to  go,  suddenly  felt  two  hands  on 
her  shoulders.  She  was  whirled  around.  Hahn—- 
he  had  to  stand  on  tiptoe  to  do  it — kissed  her  once 
on  the  mouth,  hard.  Then  he  gave  her  a  little 
shove  toward  the  door.  "Tell  Wallie  about  the 
red  carpet,"  he  said. 

"I  will  not,"  Mizzi  replied,  very  distinctly.  "I 
hate  red  carpets."  j 

Then  they  were  gone.  Hahn  hardly  seemed  to 
notice  that  they  had  left.  There  were,  I  suppose, 
the  proper  number  of  Good-byes,  and  See-you-to- 
morrows,  and  Thank  yous. 

Sid  Hahn  stood  there  a  moment  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  very  small,  very  squat,  rather  gnome- 
like,  but  not  at  all  funny.  He  went  over  to  the 
piano  and  seated  himself,  his  shoulders  hunched, 
his  short  legs  clearing  the  floor.  With  the  fore 
finger  of  his  right  hand  he  began  to  pick  out  a  little 
tune.  Not  a  sad  little  tune.  A  Hungarian  street 
song.  He  did  it  atrociously.  The  stubby  fore 
finger  came  down  painstakingly  on  the  white  keys. 
Suddenly  the  little  Jap  servant  stood  in  the  door 
way.  Hahn  looked  up.  His  cheeks  were  wet 
with  tears. 

"  God !    I  wish  I  could  play ! "  he  said. 


V 


LONG  DISTANCE 

CHET  BALL  was  painting  a  wooden 
chicken  yellow.  The  wooden  chicken 
was  mounted  on  a  six-by-twelve  board. 
The  board  was  mounted  on  four  tiny  wheels.  The 
whole  would  eventually  be  pulled  on  a  string 
guided  by  the  plump,  moist  hand  of  some  blissful 
six-year-old. 

You  got  the  incongruity  of  it  the  instant  your 
eye  fell  upon  Chet  Ball.  Chet's  shoulders  alone 
would  have  loomed  large  in  contrast  with  any 
wooden  toy  ever  devised,  including  the  Trojan  horse. 
Everything  about  him,  from  the  big,  blunt-fingered 
hands  that  held  the  ridiculous  chick  to  the  great 
muscular  pillar  of  his  neck,  was  in  direct  opposi 
tion  to  his  task,  his  surroundings,  and  his  attitude. 

Chet's  proper  milieu  was  Chicago,  Illinois  (the 
West  Side) ;  his  job  that  of  lineman  for  the  Gas, 
Light  and  Power  Company;  his  normal  working 
position  astride  the  top  of  a  telegraph  pole  sup 
ported  in  his  perilous  perch  by  a  lineman's  leather 
belt  and  the  kindly  fates,  both  of  which  are  likely 
to  trick  you  in  an  emergency. 

Yet  now  he  lolled  back  among  his  pillows,  dab- 

148 


LONG  DISTANCE  149 

bling  complacently  at  the  absurd  yellow  toy.  A 
description  of  his  surroundings  would  sound  like 
Pages  3  to  17  of  a  novel  by  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward. 
The  place  was  all  greensward,  and  terraces,  and 
sun  dials,  and  beeches,  and  even  those  rhododen 
drons  without  which  no  English  novel  or  country 
estate  is  complete.  The  presence  of  diet  Ball 
among  his  pillows  and  some  hundreds  similarly 
disposed  revealed  to  you  at  once  the  fact  that  this 
particular  English  estate  was  now  transformed 
into  Reconstruction  Hospital  No.  9. 

The  painting  of  the  chicken  quite  finished  (in- 
eluding  twa_ beady  black  paint  eyes)  Chet  was 
momentarily  at  a  loss.  Miss  Kate  had  not  told 
him  to  stop  painting  when  the  chicken  was  com 
pleted.  Miss  Kate  was  at  the  other  end  of  the 
sunny  garden  walk,  bending  over  a  wheel-chair. 
So  Chet  went  on  painting,  placidly.  One  by  one, 
with  meticulous  nicety,  he  painted  all  his  finger 
nails  a  bright  and  cheery  yellow.  vThen  he  did 
the  whole  of  his  left  thumb,  and  was  starting  on 
the  second  joint  of  the  index  finger  when  Miss 
Kate  came  up  behind  him  and  took  the  brush 
gently  from  his  strong  hands. 

"You  shouldn't  have  painted  your  fingers,"  she 
said. 

Chet  surveyed  them  with  pride.  "They  look 
swell." 


150  HALF  PORTIONS 

Miss  Kate  did  not  argue  the  point.  She  put  the 
freshly  painted  wooden  chicken  on  the  table  to  dry 
in  the  sun.  Her  eyes  fell  upon  a  letter  bearing  an 
American  postmark  and  addressed  to  Sergeant 
Chester  Ball,  with  a  lot  of  cryptic  figures  and 
letters  strung  out  after  it,  such  as  A.  E.  F.  and  Co. 

1L  . 

"  Here's  a  letter  for  you!"  (  She  infused  a  lot  of 
Glad  into  her  voice.  But  Chet  only  cast  a  languid 
eye  upon  it  and  said,  "YehP'y 

'Til  read  it  to  you,  shall  I?  ('it's  a  nice  fat 


one." 


Chet  sat  back,  indifferent,  negatively  acquies 
cent.  And  Miss  Kate  began  to  read  in  her  clear 
young  voice,  there  in  the  sunshine  and  scent  of  the 
centuries-old  English  garden. 

It  marked  an  epoch  in  Chet's  life — that  letter. 
But  before  we  can  appreciate  it  we'll  have  to  knoyv 
Chester  Ball  in  his  Chicago  days. 

'  Your  true  lineman  has  a  daredevil  way  with 
the  women,  as  have  all  men  whose  calling  is 
a  hazardous  one.  Chet  was  a  crack  workman. 
He  could  shinny  up  a  pole,  strap  his  emergency 
belt,  open  his  tool  kit,  wield  his  pliers  with  ex« 
pert  deftness,  and  climb  down  again  in  record 
time.'  It  was  his  pleasure — and  seemingly  the 
pleasure  and  privilege  of  all  lineman's  gangs  the 
world  over — to  whistle  blithely  and  to  call  im- 


LONG  DISTANCE  151 

pudently  to  any  passing  petticoat  that  caught 
his  fancy. 

Perched  three  feet  from  the  top  of  the  high  pole 
he  would  cling,  protected,  seemingly,  by  some  force 
working  in  direct  defiance  of  the  law  of  gravity. 
And  now  and  then,  by  way  of  brightening  the 
tedium  of  their  job  he  and  his  gang  would  call  to  a 
girl  passing  in  the  street  below,  "Hoo-Hoo!  Hello, 
sweetheart!" 

There  was  nothing  vicious  in  it.  ^Chet  would 
have  come  to  the  aid  of  beauty  in  distress  as 
quickly  as  Don  Quixote,  j  Any  man  with  a  blue 
shirt  as  clean,  and  a  shave  as  smooth,  and  a  hair 
cut  as  round  as  Chet  Ball's  has  no  meanness  in  him. 
A  certain  dare-deviltry  went  hand  in  hand  with  his 
work — a  calling  in  which  a  careless  load  dispatcher, 
a  cut  wire,  or  a  faulty  strap  may  mean  instant 
death.  Usually  the  girls  laughed  and  called  back 
to  them  or  went  on  more  quickly,  the  colour  in 
their  cheeks  a  little  higher. 

But  not  Anastasia  Rourke.  Early  the  first 
morning  of  a  two-weeks'  job  on  the  new  plant  of 
the  Western  Castings  Company  Chet  Ball,  glanc 
ing  down  from  his  dizzy  perch  atop  an  electric 
light  pole,  espied  Miss  Anastasia  Rourke  going  to 
work.  He  didn't  know  her  name  nor  anything 
about  her,  except  that  she  was  pretty.  /You  could 
see  that  from  a  distance  even  more  remote  than 


152  HALF  PORTIONS 

Chet's.  But  you  couldn't  know  that  Stasia  was 
a  lady  not  to  be  trifled  with.  We  know  her  name 
was  Rourke,  but  he  didn't. 

So  then:  "Hoo-Hoo!"  he  had  called.  "Hello, 
sweetheart!  Wait  for  me  and  I'll  be  down." 

Stasia  Rourke  had  lifted  her  face  to  where  he 
perched  so  high  above  the  streets.  IHer  cheeks  were 
five  shades  pinker  than  was  their  wont,  which 
would  make  them  border  on  the  red!) 

"You  big  coward,  you!"  she  called,  in  her  clear, 
crisp  voice.  "If  you  had  your  foot  on  the  ground 
you  wouldn't  dast  call  to  a  decent  girl  like  that. 
If  you  were  down  here  I'd  slap  the  face  of  you. 
You  know  you're  safe  up  there." 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  her  mouth  be 
fore  Chet  (Ball's^  sturdy  legs  were  twinkling  down 
the  pole.  His  spurred  heels  dug  into  the  soft  pine 
of  the  pole  with  little  ripe,  tearing  sounds.  He 
walked  up  to  Stasia  and  stood  squarely  in  front 
of  her,  six  feet  of  brawn  and  brazen  nerve.  One 
ruddy  cheek  he  presented  to  her  astonished  gaze. 
"Hello,  sweetheart,"  he  said.  And  waited.  The 
Rourke  girl  hesitated  just  a  second.  {  All  the  Irish 
heart  in  her  was  melting  at  the  boyish  impudence 
of  the  man  before  her.)  Then  she  lifted  one  hand 
and  slapped  his  smooth  cheek.  It  was  a  ringing 
slap.  You  saw  the  four  marks  of  her  fingers  upon 
his  face.  Chet  straightened,  his  blue  eyes  bluer. 


LONG  DISTANCE  153 

Stasia  looked  up  at  him,  her  eyes  wide.  .Then 
down  at  her  own  hand,  as  if  it  belonged  to  some 
body  else.J  Her  hand  came  up  to  her  own  face. 
She  burst  into  tears,  turned,  and  ran.  •  And  as  she 
ran,  and  as  she  wept,  she  saw  that  Chet  was  still 
standing  there,  looking  after  her. 

Next  morning,  when  Stasia  Rourke  went  by  to 
work,  Chet  Ball  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the 
pole,  waiting.) 

They  were  to  have  been  married  that  next  June. 
But  that  next  June  Chet  Ball,  perched  perilously 
on  the  branch  of  a  tree  in  a  small  woodsy  spot 
somewhere  in  France,  was  one  reason  why  the 
American  artillery  in  that  same  woodsy  spot  was 
getting  such  a  deadly  range  on  the  enemy.  Chet's 
costume  was  so  devised  that  even  through  field 
glasses  (made  in  Germany)  you  couldn't  tell  where 
tree  left  off  and  Chet  began.  \ 

JCke6,  quite  suddenly,  the  Germans  got  the 
range.  The  tree  in  which  Chet  was  hidden  came 
down  with  a  crash,  and  Chet  lay  there,  more  than 
ever  indiscernible  among  its  tender  foliage. 

Which  brings  us  back  to  the  English  garden, 
vthe  yellow  chicken ,)M iss  Kate,  and  the  letter. 

His  shattered  leg  was  mended  by  one  of  those 
miracles  of  modern  war  surgery,  though  he  never 
again  would  dig  his  spurred  heels  into  the  pine  of 
a  G.  L.  &  P.  Company  pole.  But  the  other 


154  HALF  PORTIONS 

thing — they  put  it  down  under  the  broad  general 
head  of  shell  shock.  In  the  lovely  English  garden 
they  set  him  to  weaving  and  painting,  as  a  means 
of  soothing  the  shattered  nerves.  (lie  had  made 
everything  from  pottery  jars  to  bead  chains;  from 
baskets  to  rugs.  Slowly  the  tortured  nerves 
healed.  But  the  doctors,  when  they  stopped  at 
Chet's  cot  or  chair,  talked  always  of  "the  memory 
centre."  Chet  seemed  satisfied  to  go  on  placidly 
painting  toys  or  weaving  chains  with  his  great, 
square-tipped  fingers — the  fingers  that  had  wielded 
the  pliers  so  cleverly  in  his  pole-climbing  days.  j 

"It's  just  something  that  only  luck  or  an  ac 
cident  can  mend,"  said  the  nerve  specialist.  "  Time 
may  do  it — but  I  doubt  it.  Sometimes  just  a 
word — the  right  word — will  set  the  thing  in  motion 
again.  Does  he  get  any  letters?" 

''His  girl  writes  to  him.  Fine  letters.  But  she 
doesn't  know  yet  about — about  this.  I've  written 
his  letters  for  him.  She  knows  now  that  his  leg  is 
healed  and  she  wonders " 

That  had  been  a  month  ago.  To-day  Miss 
Kate  slit  the  envelope  postmarked  Chicago.  Chet 
was  fingering  the  yellow  wooden  chicken,  pride  in 
his  eyes.  In  Miss  Kate's  eyes  there  was  a  troubled, 
baffled  look  as  she  began  to  read: 

Chet,  dear,  it's  raining  in  Chicago.  And  you  know  when  it 
rains  hi  Chicago,  it's  wetter,  and  muddier,  and  rainier  than 


LONG  DISTANCE  155 

any  place  in  the  world.  « Except  maybe  this  Flanders  we're 
reading  so  much  about.  They  say  for  rain  and  mud  that 
place  takes  the  prize.  J 

I  don't  know  wha£  I'm  going  on  about  rain  and  mud  for, 
Chet  darling,  when  it's  you  I'm  thinking  of.  Nothing  else 
and  nobody  else.  Chet,  I  got  a  funny  feeling  there's  some 
thing  you're  keeping  back  from  me.  You're  hurt  worse  than 
just  the  leg.  ~Boy,  dear,  don't  you  know  it  won't  make  any 
difference  with  me  how  you  look,  or  feel,  or  anything?  I  don't 
care  how  bad  you're  smashed  up.  (I'd  rather  have  you  with 
out  any  features  at  all  than  any  other  man  with  two  sets.!) 
Whatever's  happened  to  the  outside  of  you,  they  can't  change 
your  insides.  And  you're  the  same  man  that  called  out  to 
me,  that  day,  "Hoo-hoo!  Hello,  sweetheart!"  and  when  I  gave 
you  a  piece  of  my  mind  climbed  down  off  the  pole,  and  put 
your  face  up  to  be  slapped,  God  bless  the  boy  in  you 

A  sharp  little  sound  from  him.  Miss  Kate 
looked  up,  quickly.  Chet  Ball  was  staring  at 
the  beady-eyed  yellow  chicken  in  his  hand. 

"What's  this  thing?"  he  demanded  in  a  strange 
voice. 

Miss  Kate  answered  him  very  quietly,  trying 
to  keep  her  own  voice  easy  and  natural.  "  That's 
a  toy  chicken,  cut  out  of  wood." 

"What'm  I  doin'  with  it?" 

"You've  just  finished  painting  it." 

Chet  Ball  held  it  in  his  great  hand ''and  stared 
at  it  for  a  brief  moment,  struggling  between  anger 
and  amusement.  And  between  anger  and  amuse- 


156  HALF  PORTIONS 

ment  he  put  it  down  on  the  table  none  too  gently 
and  stoop  up,  yawning  a  little.  ^ft* 

"That's  a  hell  of  a  job  for  a  he-man!"^  Then 
in  utter  contrition:  "Oh,  beggin'  your  pardon! 
That  was  fierce!  I  didn't " 

But  there  was  nothing  shocked  about  the  expres 
sion  on  Miss  Kate's  face.  She  was  registering 
joy — pure  joy. 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG 

I  'W  "IT   THEN    you    are    twenty    you    do    not 
%/%/   patronize    sunsets    unless  you  are  un- 
T    T     happy,  in  love,  or  both.     Tessie  Golden 
was  both)     Six  months  ago  a  sunset  that  Belascc 
himself  could  not  have  improved  upon  had  wrung 
from  her  only  a  casual  tribute  such  as:     "My: 
Look  how  red  the  sky  is!"  delivered  as  unemotion 
ally  as  a  weather  bulletin. 

Tessie  Golden  sat  on  the  top  step  of  the  back 
porch  now,  a  slim,  inert  heap  in  a  cotton  kimono 
whose  colour  and  design  were  libels  on  the  Nippon 
ese.  Her  head  was  propped  wearily  against  the 
porch  post.  Her  hands  were  limp  in  her  lap. 
Her  face  was  turned  toward  the  west,  where  shone 
that  mingling  of  orange  and  rose  known  as  salmon 
pink.  But  no  answering  radiance  in  the  girl's  face 
met  the  glow  in  the  Wisconsin  sky. 

Saturday  night,  after  supper  in  Chippewa,  Wis., 
Tessie  Golden  of  the  pre-sunset  era  would  have 
been  calling  from  her  bedroom  to  the  kitchen: 
"Ma,  what'd  you  do  with  my  pink  georgette 
waist?" 

157 


158  HALF  PORTIONS 

And  from  the  kitchen:  "It's  in  your  second 
bureau  drawer.  The  collar  was  kind  of  mussed 
from  Wednesday  night,  and  I  give  it  a  little  press 
ing  while  my  iron  was  on." 

At  seven-thirty  Tessie  would  have  emerged  from 
her  bedroom  in  the  pink  georgette  blouse  that 
might  have  been  considered  alarmingly  frank  as  to 
texture  and  precariously  V-cut  as  to  neck  had 
Tessie  herself  not  been  so  reassuringly  unopulent; 
a  black  taffeta  skirt,  lavishly  shirred  and  very 
brief;  white  kid  shoes,  high-laced,  whose  height 
still  failed  to  achieve  the  two  inches  of  white  silk 
stocking  that  linked  skirt  hem  to  shoe  top;  finally,  a 
hat  with  a  good  deal  of  French  blue  about  it. 

As  she  passed  through  the  sitting  room  on  her 
way  out  her  mother  would  appear  in  the  doorway, 
dish  towel  in  hand.  Her  pride  in  this  slim  young 
thing  and  her  love  of  her  she  concealed  with  a  thin 
layer  of  carping  criticism. 

"Runnin'  downtown  again,  I  s'pose."  A  keen 
eye  on  the  swishing  skirt  hem. 

Tessie,  the  quick-tongued,  would  pat  the  ara 
besque  of  shining  hair  that  lay  coiled  so  submis 
sively  against  either  glowing  cheek.  "  Oh,  my,  no ! 
I  just  thought  I'd  dress  up  in  case  Angie  Hatton 
drove  past  in  her  auto  and  picked  me  up  for  a  little 
ride.  So's  not  to  keep  her  waiting. " 

Angie  Hatton  was  Old  Man  Hatton 's  daughter. 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  159 

Any  one  in  the  Fox  River  Valley  could  have  told 
you  who  Old  Man  Hatton  was.  You  saw  his 
name  at  the  top  of  every  letterhead  of  any  im 
portance  in  Chippewa,  from  the  Pulp  and  Paper 
Mill  to  the  First  National  Bank,  and  including  the 
watch  factory,  the  canning  works.,  and  the  Mid- 
Western  Land  Company.  Knowing  this,  you 
were  able  to  appreciate  Tessie's  sarcasm.  Angie 
Hatton  was  as  unaware  of  Tessie's  existence  as 
only  a  young  woman  could  be  whose  family  resi 
dence  was  in  Chippewa,  Wis.,  but  who  wintered  in 
Italy,  summered  in  the  mountains,  and  bought 
(so  the  town  said)  her  very  hairpins  in  New  York. 
When  Angie  Hatton  came  home  from  the  East  the 
town  used  to  stroll  past  on  Mondays  to  view  the 
washing  on  the  Hatton  line.  Angie's  underwear, 
flirting  so  audaciously  with  the  sunshine  and 
zephyrs,  was  of  voile  and  silk  and  crepe  de  Chine 
and  satin — materials  that  we  had  always  thought 
of  heretofore  as  intended  exclusively  for  party 
dresses  and  wedding  gowns.  Of  course  two  years 
later  they  were  showing  practically  the  same  thing 
at  Megan's  dry-goods  store.  But  that  was  always 
the  way  with  Angie  Hatton.  Even  those  of  us 
who  went  to  Chicago  to  shop  never  quite  caught 
up  with  her. 

Delivered  of  this  ironic  thrust,  Tessie   would 
walk  toward  the  screen  door  with  a  little  flaunting 


160  HALF  PORTIONS 

sway  of  the  hips.  Her  mother's  eyes,  following  the 
slim  figure,  had  a  sort  of  grudging  love  in  them. 
A  spare,  caustic,  wiry  little  woman,  Tessie's 
mother.  Tessie  resembled  her  as  a  water  colour 
may  resemble  a  blurred  charcoal  sketch.  Tessie's 
wide  mouth  curved  into  humour  lines.  She  was 
the  cut-up  of  the  escapement  department  at  the 
watch  factory;  the  older  woman's  lips  sagged  at 
the  corners.  .Tessie  was  buoyant  and  colourful 
with  youth.  The  other  was  shrunken  and  faded 
with  years  and  labour.  As  the  girl  minced  across 
the  room  in  her  absurdly  high-heeled  white  kid 
shoes  the  older  woman  thought:  "My,  but  she's 
pretty!"  But  she  said  aloud :  "Them  shoes 
could  stand  a  cleaning.  I  should  think  you'd  stay 
home  once  in  a  while  and  not  be  runnin'  the  streets 
every  night." 

"Time  enough  to  be  sittin'  home  when  I'm  old 
like  you." 

And  yet  between  these  two  there  was  love,  and 
even  understanding.  But  in  families  such  as 
Tessie's  demonstration  is  a  thing  to  be  ashamed  of; 
affection  a  thing  to  conceal.  Tessie's  father  was 
janitor  of  the  Chippewa  High  School.  A  powerful 
man,  slightly  crippled  by  rheumatism,  loquacious, 
lively,  fond  of  his  family,  proud  of  his  neat  gray 
frame  house,  and  his  new  cement  sidewalk,  and  his 
carefully  tended  yard  and  garden  patch.  In  all 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  161 

her  life  Tessie  had  never  seen  a  caress  exchanged 
between  her  parents. 

Nowadays  Ma  Golden  had  little  occasion  for 
finding  fault  with  Tessie's  evening  diversion.  She 
no  longer  had  cause  to  say:  "Always  gaddin' 
downtown,  or  over  to  Cora's  or  somewhere,  like 
you  didn't  have  a  home  to  stay  in.  You  ain't  been 
in  a  evening  this  week,  'cept  when  you  washed  your 
hair." 

Tessie  had  developed  a  fondness  for  sunsets 
viewed  from  the  back  porch — she  who  had  thought 
nothing  of  dancing  until  three  and  rising  at  half- 
past  six  to  go  to  work. 

Stepping  about  in  the  kitchen  after  supper,  her 
mother  would  eye  the  limp,  relaxed  figure  on  the 
back  porch  with  a  little  pang  at  her  heart.  She 
would  ccme  to  the  screen  door,  or  even  out  to  the 
porch  on  some  errand  or  other — to  empty  the 
coffee  grounds;  to  turn  the  row  of  half -ripe  toma 
toes  reddening  on  the  porch  railing;  to  flap  and 
hang  up  a  damp  tea  towel. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  out,  Tess?" 

"No." 

"What  you  want  to  lop  around  here  for?  Such 
a  grand  evening.  Why  don't  you  put  on  your 
things  and  run  downtown,  or  over  to  Cora's  or 
somewhere,  h'm?" 

"What  for? "—listlessly. 


162  HALF  PORTIONS 

"What  for!    What  does  anybody  go  out  for!" 

"I  don't  know/' 

If  they  could  have  talked  it  over  together,  these 
two,  the  girl  might  have  found  relief.  But  the 
family  shyness  of  their  class  was  too  strong  upon 
them.  Once  Mrs.  Golden  had  said,  in  an  effort  at 
sympathy:  "Person'd  think  Chuck  Mory  was 
the  only  one  who'd  gone  to  war  an'  the  last  fella 
left  in  the  world." 

A  grim  flash  of  the  old  humour  lifted  the  corners 
of  the  wide  mouth.  "He  is.  Who's  there  left? 
Stumpy  Gans,  up  at  the  railroad  crossing?  Or 
maybe  Fatty  Weiman,  driving  the  hack.  Guess 
I'll  doll  up  this  evening  and  see  if  I  can't  make  a 
hit  with  one  of  them." 

She  relapsed  into  bitter  silence.  The  bottom 
had  dropped  out  of  Tessie  Golden 's  world. 

fin  order  to  understand  the  Tessie  of  to-day  you 
will  have  to  know  the  Tessie  of  six  months  ago; 
Tessie  the  impudent,  the  life-loving,  the  pleasure- 
ful.  Tessie  Golden  could  say  things  to  the  escape 
ment-room  foreman  that  any  one  else  would  have 
been  fired  for.  Her  wide  mouth  was  capable  of 
glorious  insolences^  Whenever  you  heard  shrieks 
of  laughter  from  the  girls'  wash  room  at  noon  you 
knew  that  Tessie  was  holding  forth  to  an  admiring 
group.  She  was  a  born  mimic;  audacious,  agile, 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  163 

and  with  the  gift  of  burlesque.  The  autumn  that 
Angie  Hatton  came  home  from  Europe  wearing  the 
first  hobble  skirt  that  Chippewa  had  ever  seen 
Tessie  gave  an  imitation  of  that  advanced  young 
woman's  progress  down  Grand  Avenue  in  this 
restricted  garment.  The  thing  was  cruel  in  its 
fidelity,  though  containing  just  enough  exaggera 
tion  to  make  it  artistic.  She  followed  it  up  by 
imitating  the  stricken  look  on  the  face  of  Mattie 
Haynes,  cloak  and  suit  buyer  at  Megan's,  who, 
having  just  returned  from  the  East  with  what  she 
considered  the  most  fashionable  of  the  new  fall 
styles,  now  beheld  Angie  Hatton  in  the  garb 
that  was  the  last  echo  of  the  last  cry  in  Paris 
modes — and  no  model  in  Mattie's  newly  se 
lected  stock  bore  even  the  remotest  resemblance 
to  it. 

You  would  know  from  this  that  Tessie  was  not 
a  particularly  deft  worker.  Her  big-knuckled 
fingers  were  cleverer  at  turning  out  a  shirt  waist  or 
retrimming  a  hat.  Hers  were  what  are  known  as 
handy  hands,  but  not  sensitive.  It  takes  a  light 
and  facile  set  of  fingers  to  fit  pallet  and  arbour  and 
fork  together:  close  work  and  tedious.  Seated  on 
low  benches  along  the  tables,  their  chins  almost 
level  with  the  table  top,  the  girls  worked  with 
pincers  and  gas  flame,  screwing  together  the  three 
tiny  parts  of  the  watch's  anatomy  that  was  their 


164  HALF  PORTIONS 

particular  specialty.  Each  wore  a  jeweller's  glass 
in  one  eye.  {Tessie  had  worked  at  the  watch 
factory  for  three  y ear s^)  and  the  pressure  of  the 
glass  on  the  eye  socket  had  given  her  the  slightly 
hollow-eyed  appearance  peculiar  to  experienced 
watchmakers.  It  was  not  unbecoming,  though, 
and  lent  her,  somehow,  a  spiritual  look  which  made 
her  diablerie  all  the  more  piquant. 

Tessie  wasn't  always  witty,  really.  But  she  had 
achieved  a  reputation  for  wit  which  insured  ap 
plause  for  even  her  feebler  efforts.  J  Nap  Ballou, 
the  foreman,  never  left  the  escapement  room  with 
out  a  little  shiver  of  nervous  apprehension — a 
feeling  justified  by  the  ripple  of  suppressed  laugh 
ter  that  went  up  and  down  the  long  tables.  He 
knew  that  Tessie  Golden,  like  a  naughty  school 
girl  when  teacher's  back  is  turned,  had  directed 
one  of  her  sure  shafts  at  him.) 

Ballou,  his  face  .d&xklmg*  could  easily  have 
punished  her.  Tessie  knew  it.  But  he  never  did, 
or  would.  She  knew  that,  too)  Her  very  in 
solence  and  audacity  saved  her. 

"Some  day,"  Ballou  would  warn  her,  "you'll 
get  too  gay,  and  then  you'll  find  yourself  looking 
for  a  job." 

"Go  on—fire  me,"  retorted  Tessie,  "and  I'll 
meet  you  in  Lancaster" — a  form  of  wit  appreciated 
only  by  watchmakers.  For  there  is  a  certain  type 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  165 

of  watch  hand  who  is  as  peripatetic  as  the  old-time 
printer.  Restless,  ne'er-do-well,  spendthrift,  he 
wanders  from  factory  to  factory  through  the 
chain  of  watchmaking  towns :  Springfield,  Trenton, 
Waltham,  Lancaster,  Waterbury,  Chippewa.  Us 
ually  expert,  always  unreliable,  certainly  fond  of 
drink,  Nap  Ballou  was  typical  of  his  kind.  The 
steady  worker  had  a  mingled  admiration  and  con 
tempt  for  him.  He,  in  turn,  regarded  the  other  as 
a  stick-in-the-mud. /Nap  wore  his  cap  on  one 
side  of  his  curly  head,  and  drank  so  evenly  and 
steadily  as  never  to  be  quite  drunk  and  never 
strictly  sober.  He  had  slender,  sensitive  fingers 
like  an  artist's  or  a  woman's,  and  he  knew  the  parts 
of  that  intricate  mechanism  known  as  a  watch  from 
the  jewel  to  the  finishing  room.  It  was  said  he  had 
a  wife  or  two.  Forty-six,  good-looking  in  a  dis 
solute  sort  of  way,  possessing  the  charm  of  the 
wanderer,  generous  with  his  moneyj^it  was  known 
that  Tessie's  barbs  were  permitted  to  prick  him 
without  retaliation  because  Tessie  herself  appealed 
to  his  errant  fancy. 

When  the  other  girls  teased  her  about  this 
obvious  state  of  affairs  something  fine  and  con 
temptuous  welled  up  in  her.  "Him !  Why,  say,  he 
ought  to  work  in  a  pickle  factory  instead  of  a  watch 
works.  All  he  needs  is  a  little  dill  and  a  handful 
of  grape  leaves  to  make  him  good  eat  in*  as  a  relish." 


166       jfl          HALF  PORTIONS 

And  she  thought  of  Chuck  Morj^erched  on  the 
high  seat  ,0^1  the  American  Express  wagon ,fhatless, 
sunburntystockily  muscular  Jshouting  to  his  horse 
as  he  galloped  clattering  down  Winnebago  Street 
on  his  way  to  the  depot  and  the  7.50  train. 

I  suppose  there  was  something  about  the  clear 
simplicity  and  uprightness  of  the  firm  little  figure 
that  appealed  to  Nap  Ballou.  He  used  to  regard 
her  curiously  with  a  long,  hard  gaze  before  which 
she  would  grow  uncomfortable.  "Think  you'll 
know  me  next  time  you  see  me?  "  But  there  was 
an  uneasy  feeling  beneath  her  flip  exterior.  Not 
that  there  was  anything  of  the  beautiful,  perse 
cuted  factory  girl  and  villainous  foreman  about  the 
situation.  {  Tessie  worked  at  watchmaking  be 
cause  it  was  light,  pleasant,  and  well  paic|  She 
could  have  found  another  job  for  the  asking.  Her 
money  went  for  white  shoes  and  pink  blouses  and 
lacy  boudoir  caps  which  she  affected  Sunday 
mornings.  She  was  forever  buying  a  vivid  necktie 
for  her  father  and  dressing  up  her  protesting  mother 
in  gay  colours  that  went  ill  with  the  drab,  wrinkled 
face.  "If  it  wasn't  for  me,  you'd  go  round  looking 
like  one  of  those  Polack  women  down  by  the 
tracks,"  Tessie  would  scold.  "It's  a  wonder  you 
don't  wear  a  shawl!" 

/  That  was  the  Tessie  of  six  months  ago,  gay, 
care-free,  holding  the  reins  of  her  life  in  her  own 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  167 

two  capable  hands.  Three  nights  a  week,  and 
Sunday,  she  saw  Chuck  Mory.  When  she  went 
downtown  on  Saturday  night  it  was  frankly  to 
meet  Chuck,  who  was  waiting  for  her  on  Schroe 
der's  drug-store  corner.  He  knew  it,  and  she 
knew  it.  Yet  they  always  went  through  a  little 
ceremony.  She  and  Cora,  turning  into  Grand 
from  Winnebago  Street,  would  make  for  the  post 
office.  Then  down  the  length  of  Grand  with  a 
leaping  glance  at  Schroeder's  corner  before  they 
reached  it.  Yes,  there  they  were,  very  clean 
shaven,  clean-shirted,  slick  looking.  Tessie  would 
have  known  Chuck's  blond  head  among  a  thou 
sands  An  air  of  studied  hauteur  and  indifference 
as  they  approached  the  corner.  Heads  turned  the 
other  way.  A  low  whistle  from  the  boys. 

"Oh,  how  do!" 

"Good  evening!*' 

Both  greetings  done  with  careful  surprise. 
Then  on  down  the  street.  On  the  way  back  you 
took  the  inside  of  the  walk,  and  your  hauteur  was 
now  stony  to  the  point  of  insult.  Schroeder's 
corner  simply  did  not  exist.  On  as  far  as  Megan's 
which  you  entered  and  inspected,  up  one  brightly 
lighted  aisle  and  down  the  next.  At  the  dress- 
goods  counter  there  was  a  neat  little  stack  of 
pamphlets  entitled  "In  the  World  of  Fashion." 
You  took  one  and  sauntered  out  leisurely.  Down 


168  HALF  PORTIONS 

Winnebago  Street  now,  homeward  bound,  talking 
animatedly  and  seemingly  unconscious  of  quick 
footsteps  sounding  nearer  and  nearer.  Just  past 
the  Burke  House,  where  the  residential  district  be 
gan,  and  where  the  trees  cast  their  kindly  shadows: 
("Can  I  see  you  home?"  A  hand  slipped  through 
her  arm;  a  little  tingling  thrill 

fOh,  why,  how  do,  Chuck!  Hello,  Scotty. 
Sure,  if  you're  going  our  waW5 

At  every  turn  Chuck  left  her  side  and  dashed 
around  behind  her  in  order  to  place  himself  at  her 
right  again,  according  to  the  rigid  rule  of  Chippewa 
etiquette.  /He  took  her  arm  only  at  street  crossings 
until  they  reached  the  tracks,  which  perilous  spot 
seemed  to  justify  him  in  retaining  his  hold  through 
out  the  remainder  of  the  stroll.  Usually  they  lost 
Cora  and  Scotty  without  having  been  conscious  of 
their  lossy 

Their  talk?  The  girls  and  boys  that  each  knew; 
the  day's  happenings  at  factory  and  express  office; 
next  Wednesday  night's  dance  up  in  the  Chute;  and 
always  the  possibility  of  Chuck's  leaving  the  wagon 
and  assuming  the  managership  of  the  office. 

"Don't  let  this  go  any  further,  see?  But  I 
heard  it  straight  that  old  Benke  is  goin'  to  be  trans 
ferred  to  Fond  du  Lac.  And  if  he  is,  why,  I  step 
in,  see?  Benke's  got  a  girl  in  Fondy,  and  he's  been 
pluggin'  to  get  there.  Gee,  maybe  I  won't  be  glad 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  169 

when  he  does!"  A  little  silence.  "Will  you  be 
glad,  Tess?  H'm?" 

Tess  felt  herself  glowing  and  shivering  as  the  big 
hand  closed  more  tightly  on  her  arm.  "Me? 
Why,  sure  I'll  be  pleased  to  see  you  get  a  job  that's 
coming  to  you  by  rights,  and  that'll  get  you  better 
pay,  and  all." 

But  she  knew  what  he  meant,  and  he  knew  she 
knew.  And  the  clasp  tightened  until  it  hurt  her, 
and  she  was  glad. 

\No  more  of  that  now.  Chuck — gone.  Scotty 
— gone.  All  the  boys  at  the  watch  works,  all  the 
fellows  in  the  neighbourhood — gone^  At  first  she 
hadn't  minded.  It  was  exciting.  You  kidded 
them  at  first:  "Well,  believe  me,  Chuck,  if  you 
shoot  the  way  you  play  ball,  you're  a  gone  goose 
already." 

"All  you  got  to  do,  Scotty,  is  to  stick  that  face 
of  yours  up  over  the  top  of  the  trench  and  the 
Germans'll  die  of  fright  an'  save  you  wastin' 
bullets." 

There  was  a  great  knitting  of  socks  and  sweaters 
and  caps.  Tessie's  big-knuckled,  capable  fingers 
made  you  dizzy,  they  flew  so  fast.  Chuck  was 
outfitted  as  for  a  polar  expedition.  Tess  took  half 
a  day  off  to  bid  him  good-bye.  They  marched  down 
Grand  Avenue,  that  first  lot  of  them,  in  their  every- 


170  HALF  PORTIONS 

day  suits  and  hats,  with  their  shiny  yellow  suit 
cases  and  their  paste-board  boxes  in  their  hands, 
sheepish,  red-faced,  awkward.  In  their  eyes, 
though,  a  certain  look.  And  so  off  for  Camp 
Sherman,  then*  young  heads  sticking  out  of  the  car 
windows  in  clusters — black,  yellow,  brown,  red. 
But  for  each  woman  on  the  depot  platform  there 
was  just  one  head.  Tessie  saw  a  blurred  blond  one 
with  a  misty  halo  around  it.  A  great  shouting  and 
waving  of  handkerchiefs : 

"Goo'-bye!  Goo'-bye!  Write,  now!  Be  sure! 
Mebbe  you  can  get  off  in  a  week,  for  a  visit. 
Goo'-bye!  Goo " 

They  were  gone.  Their  voices  came  back  to 
the  crowd  on  the  depot  platform — high,  clear 
young  voices;  almost  like  the  voices  of  children, 
shputing. 

\Well,  you  wrote  letters;  fat,  bulging  letters,  and 
in  turn  you  received  equally  plump  envelopes)  with 
a  red  triangle  in  one  corner.  /You  sent  boxes  of 
homemade  fudge  (nut  variety)  and  cookies  and  the 
more  durable  forms  of  cake| 

Then,  unaccountably,  Chuck  was  whisked  all  the 
way  to  California.  He  was  furious  at  parting  with 
his  mates,  and  his  indignation  was  expressed  in  his 
letters  to  Tessie.  She  sympathized  with  him  in 
her  replies.  She  tried  to  make  light  of  it,  but  there 
was  a  little  clutch  of  terror  in  it,  too.  California! 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  171 

My  land !  Might  as  well  send  a  person  to  the  end 
of  the  world  while  they  were  about  it.  Two 
months  of  that.  Then,  inexplicably  again, 
Chuck's  letters  bore  the  astounding  postmark  of 
New  York.  She  thought,  in  a  panic,  that  he  was 
Franceward  bound,  but  it  turned  out  not  to  be  so. 
Not  yet.  Chuck's  letters  were  taking  on  a  cosmo 
politan  tone.  "Well,"  he  wrote,  "I  guess  the 
little  old  town  is  as  dead  as  ever.  It  seems  funny 
you  being  right  there  all  this  time  and  I've  travelled 
from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific.  Everybody 
treats  me  swell.  You  ought  to  seen  some  of  those 
California  houses.  They  make  Hatton's  place 
look  sick." 

The  girls,  Cora  and  Tess  and  the  rest,  laughed 
and  joked  among  themselves  and  assured  one  an 
other,  with  a  toss  of  the  head,  that  they  could  have 
a  good  time  without  the  fellas.  They  didn't  need 
boys  around.  Well,  I  should  say  not ! 

They  gave  parties,  and  they  were  not  a  success. 
There  was  one  of  the  type  known  as  a  stag.  They 
dressed  up  in  their  brother's  clothes,  or  their 
father's  or  a  neighbour  boy's,  and  met  at  Cora's. 
They  looked  as  knock-kneed  and  slope-shouldered 
and  unmasculine  as  girls  usually  do  in  men's  attire. 
All  except  Tessie.  There  was  something  so  as 
tonishingly  boyish  and  straight  about  her;  she 
swaggered  about  with  such  a  mannish  swing  of  the 


172  HALF  PORTIONS 

leg  (that  was  the  actress  in  her)  that  the  girls 
flushed  a  little  and  said:  "Honest,  Tess,  if  I 
didn't  know  you  was  a  girl,  I'd  be  stuck  on  you. 
With  that  hat  on  a  person  wouldn't  know  you  from 
a  boy." 

Tessie  would  cross  one  slim  leg  over  the  other 
and  bestow  a  knowing  wink  upon  the  speaker. 
"  Some  hen  party ! "  they  all  said.  They  danced  to 
the  music  of  the  victrola  and  sang  "Over  There." 
They  had  ice  cream  and  chocolate  layer  cake  and 
went  home  in  great  hilarity,  with  their  hands  on 
each  other's  shoulders,  still  singing.  When  they 
met  a  passer-by  they  giggled  and  shrieked  and 
ran. 

But  the  thing  was  a  failure,  and  they  knew  it. 
Next  day,  at  the  lunch  hour  and  in  the  wash  room, 
there  was  a  little  desultory  talk  about  the  stag. 
But  the  meat  of  such  an  aftergathering  is  con 
tained  in  phrases  such  as  "I  says  t'  him"  and  "He 
says  t'  me."  They  wasted  little  conversation  on 
the  stag.  It  was  much  more  exciting  to  exhibit 
letters  on  blue-lined  paper  with  the  red  triangle  at 
the  top.  Chuck's  last  letter  had  contained  the 
news  of  his  sergeancy. 

[Angle  Hatton,  home  from  the  East,  was  writing 
letters,  too.  Everyone  in  Chippewa  knew  that. 
She  wrote  on  that  new  art  paper  with  the  gnawed 
looking  edges  and  stiff  as  a  newly  laundered  cuff. 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  173 

But  the  letters  which  she  awaited  so  eagerly  were 
written  on  the  same  sort  of  paper  as  were  those 
Tessie  had  from  Chuck:  blue-lined,  cheap  in 
quality^  a  red  triangle  at  one  corner,  f. A  New 
York  fellow,  Chippewa  learned;  an  aviator^ 
They  knew,  too,  that  young  Hatton  was  an  in 
fantry  lieutenant  somewhere  in  the  East.  These 
letters  were  not  from  him. 

Ever  since  her  home-coming  Angie  had  been 
sewing  at  the  Red  Cross  shop  on  Grand  Avenue. 
Chippewa  boasted  two  Red  Cross  shops.  The 
Grand  Avenue  shop  was  the  society  shop. 
The  East-End  crowd  sewed  there,  capped,  veiled, 
aproned — and  unapproachable.  Were  your  fingers 
ever  so  deft,  your  knowledge  of  seams  and 
basting  mathematical,  your  skill  with  that  compli 
cated  garment  known  as  a  pneumonia  jacket  un 
canny;  if  you  did  not  belong  to  the  East-End  set, 
you  did  not  sew  at  the  Grand  Avenue  shop.  No 
matter  how  grossly  red  the  blood  which  the 
Grand  Avenue  bandages  and  pads  were  ultimately 
to  stanch,  the  liquid  in  the  fingers  that  rolled  and 
folded  them  was  pure  cerulean. 

Tessie  and  her  crowd  had  never  thought  of 
giving  any  such  service  to  their  country.  They 
spoke  of  the  Grand  Avenue  workers  as  "that 
stinkin'  bunch,"  I  regret  to  say.  Yet  each  one 
of  the  girls  was  capable  of  starting  a  shirt  waist  in 


174  HALF  PORTIONS 

an  emergency  on  Saturday  night  and  finishing  it  in 
time  for  a  Sunday  picnic,  buttonholes  and  all. 
Their  help  might  have  been  invaluable.  It  never 
was  asked. 

\Without  warning  Chuck  came  home  on  three 
days*  leave.  It  meant  that  he  was  bound  for 
France  right  enough  this  time.  But  Tessie  didn't 
care.}  ^ 

|I  don't  care  where  you're  goin^  she  said,  ex 
ultantly,  her  eyes  lingering  on  the  stocky,  straight, 
powerful  figure  in  its  rather  ill-fitting  khaki. 
f  You're  here  now.  That's  enough.  Ain't  you 
tickled  to  be  home,  Chuck?  Geej" 

"I  sh'd  say,"  responded  Chuck.  But  even  he 
seemed  to  detect  some  lack  in  his  tone  and  words. 
He  elaborated  somewhat  shamefacedly:  j  Sure. 
It's  swell  to  be  home.  But  I  don't  know.  After 
you've  travelled  around,  and  come  back,  things 
look  so  kind  of  little  to  youj  I  don't  know — kind 
of "  he  floundered  abotft  at  a  loss  for  expres 
sion.  Then  tried  again:  "Now,  take  Hatton's 
place,  f 'r  example.  I  always  used  to  think  it  was  a 
regular  palace,  but,  gosh,  you  ought  to  see  places 
where  I  was  asked  in  San  Francisco  and  around 
there.  Why,  they  was — were — enough  to  make 
the  Hatton  house  look  like  a  shack.  Swimmin' 
pools  of  white  marble,  and  acres  of  yard  like  a 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  175 

park,  and  a  Jap  help  always  bringin'  you  some 
thing  to  eat  or  drink.  And  the  folks  themselves — 
why,  say!  Here  we  are  scrapin'  and  bo  win'  to 
Hat  tons  and  that  bunch.  They're  pikers  to  what 
some  people  are  that  invited  me  to  their  houses  in 
New  York  and  Berkeley,  and  treated  me  and  the 
other  guys  like  kings  or  something.  Take  Me 
gan's  store,  too" — he  was  warming  to  his  subject, 
so  that  he  failed  to  notice  the  darkening  of  Tessie's 
face — "it's  a  joke  compared  to  New  York  and 
San  Francisco  stores.  Reg'lar  rube  joint." 

Tessie  stiffened.  Her  teeth  were  set,  her  eyes 
sparkled.  She  tossed  her  head.  "Well,  I'm  sure, 
Mr.  Mory,  it's  good  enough  for  me.  Too  bad  you 
had  to  come  home  at  all  now  you're  so  elegant  and 
swell,  and  everything.  You  better  go  call  on 
Angie  Hatton  instead  of  wastin'  time  on  me. 
She'd  probably  be  tickled  to  see  you." 

He  stumbled  to  his  feet,  then,  awkwardly. 
"Aw,  say,  Tessie,  I  didn't  mean — why,  say — you 
don't  suppose — why,  believe  me,  I  pretty  near 
busted  out  cry  in'  when  I  saw  the  Junction  eatin* 
house  when  my  train  came  in.  And  I  been 
thinkin'  of  you  every  minute.  There  wasn't  a 
day- 

"Tell  that  to  your  swell  New  York  friends.  I 
may  be  a  rube,  but  I  ain't  a  fool."  She  was 
perilously  near  to  tears. 


176  HALF  PORTIONS 

"Why,  say,  Tess,  listen!  Listen!  If  you  knew 
— if  you  knew — a  guy's  got  to — he's  got  no  right 

And  presently  Tessie  was  mollified,  but  only  on 
the  surf  ace.  I  She  smiled  and  glanced  and  teased 
and  sparkled.  And  beneath  was  terror,/  He 
talked  differently.  He  walked  differently. (It 
wasn't  his  clothes  or  the  army.  It  was  something 
else — an  ease  of  manner,  a  new  leisureliness  of 
glance,  an  air.  Once  Tessie  had  gone  to  Mil 
waukee  over  Labour  Day.  It  was  the  extent  of 
her  experience  as  a  traveller.  She  remembered 
how  superior  she  had  felt  for  at  least  two  days 
after.  But  Chuck!  California!  New  York!  It 
wasn't  the  distance  that  terrified  her.  It  was 
his  new  knowledge,  the  broadening  of  his  vision/ 
though  she  did  not  know  it  and  certainly  could  not 
have  put  it  into  words. 

They  went  walking  down  by  the  river  to  Oneida 
Springs,  and  drank  some  of  the  sulphur  water  that 
tasted  like  rotten  eggs.  Tessie  drank  it  with  little 
shrieks  and  shudders  and  puckered  her  face  up  into 
an  expression  indicative  of  extreme  disgust. 

"It's  good  for  you,"  Chuck  said,  and  drank  three 
cups  of  it,  manfully.  "That  taste  is  the  mineral 
qualities  the  water  contains — sulphur  and  iron  and 
so  forth." 

"I  don't  care,"  snapped  Tessie,  irritably.     "I 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  177 

hate  it!"     They  had  often  walked  along  the  river 
and  tasted  of  the  spring  water,  but  Chuck  had 
never  before  waxed  scientific.  \  They  took  a  boat) 
at  Baumann's  ^oathouse  and^urifted  down  the 
lovely  Fox  Rivegj? 

"Want  to  row?"  Chuck  asked.  "I'll  get  an 
extra  pair  of  oars  if  you  do," 

"I  don't  know  how.  Besides,  it's  too  much 
work.  I  guess  I'll  let  you  do  it." 

Chuck  was  fitting  his  oars  in  the  oarlocks.  She 
stood  on  the  landing  looking  down  at  him.  His 
hat  was  off.  His  hair  seemed  blonder  than  ever 
against  the  rich  tan  of  his  face.  His  neck  muscles 
swelled  a  little  as  he  bent.  Tessie  felt  a  great 
longing  to  bury  her  face  in  the  warm  red  skin.  He 
straightened  with  a  sigh  and  smiled  at  her.  "I'll 
be  ready  in  a  minute."  He  took  off  his  coat  and 
turned  his  khaki  shirt  in  at  the  throat,  so  that  you 
saw  the  white,  clean  line  of  his  untanned  chest  in 
strange  contrast  to  his  sunburnt  throat.  A  feeling 
of  giddy  faintness  surged  over  Tessie.  She 
stepped  blindly  into  the  boat  and  would  have 
fallen  if  Chuck's  hard,  firm  grip  had  not  steadied 
her.  "Whoa,  there!  Don't  you  know  how  to 
step  into  a  boat?  There.  Walk  along  the  middle." 
She  sat  down  and  smiled  up  at  him.  "I  don't 
know  how  I  come  to  do  that.  I  never  did  before." 

Chuck  braced  his  feet,  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  and 


178  HALF  PORTIONS 

took  an  oar  in  each  brown  hand,  bending  rhythmi 
cally  to  his  task.  He  looked  about  him,  then  at  the 
girl,  and  drew  a  deep  breath,  feathering  his  oars. 
"I  guess  I  must  have  dreamed  about  this  more'n  a 
million  times." 

"Have  you,  Chuck?"  ^ 

They  drifted  on  in  silence.  ("Say,  Tess,  you 
ought  to  learn  to  row.  It's  good  exercise.  Those 
girls  in  California  and  New  York,  they  play  base 
ball  and  row  and  swim  as  good  as  the  boys. 
Honest,  some  of  'em  are  wonders)!" 

|*t)h,  I'm  sick  of  your  swell  New,  York  friends ! 
Can't  you  talk  about  something  elsep" 

He  saw  that  he  had  blundered  without  in  the 
least  understanding  how  or  why.  ['All  right. 
What'll  we  talk  about  ?y  In  itself  a  fatal  admis 
sion, 

'iAbout — youjl    Tessie  made  it  a  caress. 

"Me?  Nothin'  to  tell  about  me.  I  just  been 
drillin'  and  studyin'  and  marchin'  and  readin' 
some Oh,  say,  what  d'you  think?  " 

"What?" 

'iThey  been  learnin'  us — teachin'  us,  I  mean — 
French.  It's  the  darnedest  language!  Bread  is 
pain.  Can  you  beat  that?  If  you  want  to  ask 
for  a  piece  of  bread,  you  say  like  this:  Donnay 
ma  un  morso  doo  pang.  See?'? 

* 'My! 'I  breathed  Tessie,  all  admiration. 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  179 

i^And  within  her  something  was  screaming: 
"Oh,  my  God!  Oh,  my  God!  He  knows  French. 
And  those  girls  that  can  row  and  everything. 
And  me,  I  don't  know  anything.  Oh,  God,  what'll 
I  do?'' 

fit  was  as  though  she  could  see  him  slipping 
away  from  her,  out  of  her  grasp,  out  of  her  sight. 
She  had  no  fear  of  what  might  come  to  him  in 
France.  Bullets  and  bayonets  would  never  hurt 
Chuckp/  He'd  make  it,  just  as  he  always  made  the 
7.50  when  it  seemed  as  if  he  was  going  to  miss  it 
sure.  /He'd  make  it  there  and  back,  all  right. 
But  he — he'd  be  a  different  Chuck,  while  she 
stayed  the  same  Tessie.  Books,  travel,  French, 
girls,  swell  folks— J — 

And  all  the  while  she  was  smiling  and  dimpling 
and  trailing  her  hand  in  the  water.  "Bet  you 
can't  guess  what  I  got  in  that  lunch  box." 

"Chocolate  cake." 

"Well,  of  course  I've  got  chocolate  cake.  I 
baked  it  myself  this  morning." 

"Yes,  you  did!" 

"Why,  Chuck  Mory,  I  did  so!  I  guess  you 
think  I  can't  do  anything,  the  way  you  talk." 

"Oh,  don't  I!     I  guess  you  know  what  I  think." 

"Well,  it  isn't  the  cake  I  mean.  It's  something 
else." 

"Fried  chicken!" 


180  HALF  PORTIONS 

"Oh,  now  you've  gone  and  guessed  it."  She 
pouted  prettily. 

"  You  asked  me  to,  didn't  you?  " 

Then  they  laughed  together,  as  at  something 
exquisitely  witty. 

Down  the  river,  drifting,  rowing.  Tessie 
pointed  to  a  house  half  hidden  among  the  trees 
on  the  farther  shore:  "There's  Hatton's  camp. 
They  say  they  have  grand  times  there  with  their 
swell  crowd  some  Saturdays  and  Sundays.  If  I 
had  a  house  like  that,  I'd  live  in  it  all  the  time,  not 
just  a  couple  of  days  out  of  the  whole  year."  She 
hesitated  a  moment.  "I  suppose  it  looks  like  a 
shanty  to  you  now." 

Chuck  surveyed  it,  patronizingly.  "No,  it's  a 
nice  little  place." 

/They  beached  their  boat,  and  built  a  little  fire, 
and  had  supper  on  the  river  bank,  and  Tessie 
picked  out  the  choice  bits  for  him^-the  breast  of 
the  chicken,  beautifully  golden  brown;  the  ripest 
tomato;  the  firmest,  juiciest  pickle;  the  corner  of 
the  little  cake  wjiich  would  give  him  a  double 
share  of  icing.  {(She  may  not  have  been  versed 
hi  French,  "Tes&iev  but  she  was  wise  in  feminine 


wilesJ 


From  Chuck,  between  mouthfuls:  "I  guess 
you  don't  know  how  good  this  tastes.  Camp 
grub's  all  right,  but  after  you've  had  a  few 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  181 

months  of  it  you  get  so  you  don't  believe  there 
is  such   a  thing  as  fried  chicken  and  chocolate 

cake." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,  Chuck.  Here,  take  this 
drumstick.  You  ain't  eating  a  thing!"  His 
fourth  piece  of  chicken. 

Down  the  river  as  far  as  the  danger  line  just 
above  the  dam,  with  Tessie  pretending  fear  just 
for  the  joy  of  having  Chuck  reassure  her.  Then 
back  again  in  the  dusk,  Chuck  bending  to  the  task 
now  against  the  current.  And  so  up  the  hill 
homeward  bound (  jTfiev  walked  very  slowly, 
Chuck's  hand  on  her  arnv  They  were  dumb  with 
the  tragic,  eloquent  dumbness  of  their  kind.f  If 
she  could  have  spoken  the  words  that  were  churn 
ing  in  her  mind,  they  would  have  been  something 
like^this^ 

f"  Oh,  Chuck,  I  wish  I  was  married  to  you.  I 
wouldn't  care  if  only  I  had  you.  I  wouldn't  mind 
babies  or  anything.  I'd  be  glad.  I  want  our 
house,  with  a  dining-room  set,  and  a  brass  bed,  and 
a  mahogany  table  in  the  parlour,  and  all  the  house 
work  to  do.  I'm  scared,  v  I'm  scared  I  won't  get 
it,  What'llIdoifldonV" 

{  And  he,  wordlessly:  "Will  you  wait  for  me, 
Tessie,  and  keep  on  loving  me  and  thinking  of  me? 
And  will  you  keep  yourself  clean  in  mind  and  body 
so  that  if  I  come  back — V-' 


182  HALF  PORTIONS 

|T 

Aloud,  she  said:  "I  guess  you'll  get  stuck  on 
one  of  those  French  girls.  I  should  worry!  They 
say  wages  at  the  watch  factory  are  going  to 
be  raised,  workers  are  so  scarce.  I'll  prob'ly 
be  as  rich  as  Angie  Hatton  time  you  get 
back.? 

(And  he,  miserably:  "Little  old  Chippewa  girls 
are  good  enough  for  Chuck.  I  ain't  counting  on 
taking  up  with  those  Frenchiesi  I  don't  like  their 
jabber,  from  what  I  know  of  it.  I  saw  some 
pictures  of  'em,  last  week,  a  fellow  in  camp  had 
who'd  been  over  there.  Their  hair  is  all  funny, 
and  fixed  up  with  combs  and  stuff,  and  they  look 
real  dark  like  foreigners .  Nix !  * ' 

t  It  had  been  reassuring  enough  at  the  time.  But 
that  was  six  months  ago.  Which  brings  us  to  the 
Tessie  who  sat  on  the  back  porch,  evenings,  survey 
ing  the  sunset.  A  listless,  lackadaisical,  brooding 
Tessie.  Little  point  to  going  downtown  Saturday 
nights  now.  There  was  no  familiar,  beloved  fig 
ure  to  follow  you  swiftly  as  you  turned  off  Elm 
Street,  homeward  bound.}  If  she  went  downtown 
now,  she  saw  only  those  Saturday-night  family 
groups  which  are  familiar  to  every  small  town. 
The  husband,  very  wet  as  to  hair  and  clean  as  to 
shirt,  guarding  the  gocart  outside  while  the  woman 
accomplished  her  Saturday-night  trading  at  Ding's 
or  Halpin's.  Sometimes  there  were  as  many  as 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  183 

half  a  dozen  gocarts  outside  Halpin's,  each  con 
taining  a  sleeping  burden,  relaxed,  chubby,  fat- 
cheeked.  The  waiting  men  smoked  their  pipes 
and  conversed  largely.  "Hello,  Ed.  Th'  woman's 
inside,  buyin'  the  store  out,  I  guess." 

"Tha'  so?  Mine,  too.  Well,  how's  every 
thing?" 

Tessie  knew  that  presently  the  woman  would 
come  out,  bundle  laden,  and  that  she  would  stow 
these  lesser  bundles  in  every  corner  left  available 
by  the  more  important  sleeping  bundle — two 
yards  of  goods;  a  spool  of  100,  white;  a  banana  for 
the  baby;  a  new  stewpan  at  the  Five-and-Ten. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  Tessie,  if  she 
thought  of  these  women  at  all,  felt  sorry  for  them; 
worn,  drab,  lacking  in  style  and  figure.  Now  she 
envied  them.  For  the  maternal  may  be  strong  at 
twenty. 


lere  were  weejks  upon  weeks  when  no  letter 
came  from  Chuck^  In  his  last  letter  there  had 
been  some  talk  ofliis  being  sent  to  Russia.  Tes- 
sie's  eyes,  large  enough  now  in  her  thin  face,  dis^ 
tended  with  a  great  fear.  Russia!  [His^  letter 
spoke,  ~t2fc,  of  French  villages  and  chateaux.  He 
and  a  bunch  of  fellows  had  been  introduced  to  a 
princess  or  a  countess  or  something — it-was-ttl!  one 
what  do  you  think?  She  had 


184  HALF  PORTIONS 

kissed  them  all  on  both  cheeks!  Seems  that's  the 
way  they  did  in  France  I 

The  morning  after  the  receipt  of  this  letter  the 
girls  at  the  watch  factory  might  have  remarked 
her  pallor  had  they  not  been  so  occupied  with  a 
new  and  more  absorbing  topic. 

"Tess,  did  you  hear  about  Angie  Hatton?" 

"What  about  her?" 

"She's  going  to  France.  It's  in  the  Milwaukee 
paper,  all  about  her  being  Chippewa's  fairest 
daughter,  and  a  picture  of  the  house,  and  her  being 
Ihe  belle  of  the  Fox  River  Valley,  and  she's  giving 
up  her  palatial  home  and  all  to  go  to  work  in  a  Y. 
M.  C.  A.  canteen  for  her  country  and  bleeding 
France." 

"Ya-as  she  is!"  sneered  Tessie,  and  a  dull  red 
flush,  so  deep  as  to  be  painful,  swept  over  her  face 
from  throat  to  brow.  "Ya-as  she  is,  the  doll- 
faced  simp!  Why,  say,  she  never  wiped  up  a 
Jfloor  in  her  life,  or  baked  a  cake,  or  stood  on  them 
feet  of  hers.  She  couldn't  cut  up  a  loaf  of  bread 
decent.  Bleedin'  France !  Ha !  That's  rich,  that 
is."  She  thrust  her  chin  out  brutally,  and  her 
eyes  narrowed  to  slits.  "She's  goin'  over  there 
after  that  fella  of  hers.  She's  chasin'  him.  It's 
now  or  never,  and  she  knows  it  and  she's  scared, 
same's  the  rest  of  us.  On'y  we  got  to  set  home 
and  make  the  best  of  it.  Or  take  what's  left." 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  185 

She  turned  her  head  slowly  to  where  Nap  Ballou 
stood  over  a  table  at  the  far  end  of  the  room.  She 
laughed  a  grim,  unlovely  little  laugh.  "I  guess 
when  you  can't  go  after  what  you  want,  like 
Angie,  why,  you  gotta  take  second  choice." 

All  that  day,  at  the  bench,  she  was  the  reckless, 
insolent,  audacious  Tessie  of  six  months  ago. 
Nap  Ballou  was  always  standing  over  her,  pretend 
ing  to  inspect  some  bit  of  work  or  other,  his 
shoulder  brushing  hers.  She  laughed  up  at  him 
so  that  her  face  was  not  more  than  two  inches  from 
his.  He  flushed,  but  she  did  not.  She  laughed  a 
reckless  little  laugh. 

"Thanks  for  helpin'  teach  me  my  trade,  Mr. 
Ballou.  'Course  I  only  been  at  it  over  three  years 
now,  so  I  ain't  got  the  hang  of  it  yet." 

He  straightened  up  slowly,  and  as  he  did  so  he 
rested  a  hand  on  her  shoulder  for  a  brief  moment. 
She  did  not  shrug  it  off. 

That  night,  after  supper,  Tessie  put  on  her  hat 
and  strolled  down  to  Park  Avenue.  It  wasn't  for 
the  walk.  Tessie  had  never  been  told  to  exercise 
systematically  for  her  body's  good,  or  her  mind's. 
She  went  in  a  spirit  of  unwholesome,  brooding 
curiosity  and  a  bitter  resentment.  Going  to 
France,  was  she?  Lots  of  good  she'd  do  there. 
Better  stay  home  and — and  what?  Tessie  cast 


186  HALF  PORTIONS 

about  in  her  mind  for  a  fitting  job  for  Angie. 
Guess  she  might's  well  go,  after  all.  Nobody'd 
miss  her,  unless  it  was  her  father,  and  he  didn't 
see  her  but  about  a  third  of  the  time.  But  in 
Tessie's  heart  was  a  great  envy  for  this  girl  who 
could  bridge  the  hideous  waste  of  ocean  that 
separated  her  from  her  man.  Bleedin'  France. 
Yeh!  Joke! 

The  Hatton  place,  built  and  landscaped  twenty 
years  before,  occupied  a  square  block  in  solitary 
grandeur,  the  show  place  of  Chippewa.  In 
architectural  style  it  was  an  impartial  mixture  of 
Norman  castle,  French  chateau,  and  Rhenish 
Schloss,  with  a  dash  of  Coney  Island  about  its 
fagade.  It  represented  Old  Man  Hatton's  realized 
dream  of  landed  magnificence. 

Tessie,  walking  slowly  past  it,  and  peering 
through  the  high  iron  fence,  could  not  help  noting 
an  air  of  unwonted  excitement  about  the  place, 
usually  so  aloof,  so  coldly  serene.  Automobiles 
standing  out  in  front.  People  going  up  and 
down.  They  didn't  look  very  cheerful.  Just  as 
if  it  mattered  whether  anything  happened  to  her  or 
not! 

Tessie  walked  around  the  block  and  stood  a 
moment,  uncertainly.  Then  she  struck  off  down 
Grand  Avenue  and  past  Donovan's  pool  shack.  A 
little  group  of  after-supper  idlers  stood  outside, 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  187 

smoking  and  gossiping,  as  she  knew  there  would  be. 
As  she  turned  the  corner  she  saw  Nap  Ballou 
among  them.  She  had  known  that,  too.  As  she 
passed  she  looked  straight  ahead,  without  bowing. 
But  just  past  the  Burke  House  he  caught  up  to 
her.  No  half -shy  "Can  I  walk  home  with  you?" 
from  Nap  Ballou.  No.  Instead:  "Hello,  sweet 
heart!" 

"Hello,  yourself." 

"Somebody's  looking  mighty  pretty  this  even 
ing,  all  dolled  up  in  pink." 

"Think  so?" 

She  tried  to  be  pertly  indifferent,  but  it  was 
good  to  have  someone  following,  someone  walking 
home  with  you.  What  if  he  was  old  enough  to  be 
her  father,  with  graying  hair?  Lots  of  the  movie 
heroes  had  graying  hair  at  the  sides.  Twenty 
craves  someone  to  tell  it  how  wonderful  it  is. 
And  Nap  Ballou  told  her. 

They  walked  for  an  hour.  Tessie  left  him  at  the 
corner.  She  had  once  heard  her  father  designate 
Ballou  as  "that  drunken  skunk."  When  she 
entered  the  sitting  room  her  cheeks  held  an  un 
wonted  pink.  Her  eyes  were  brighter  than  they 
had  been  in  months.  Her  mother  looked  up 
quickly,  peering  at  her  over  a  pair  of  steel-rimmed 
spectacles,  very  much  askew. 

"Where  you  been,  Tessie?" 


188  HALF  PORTIONS 

"Oh,  walkin'." 

"Who  with?" 

"Cora." 

"Why,  she  was  here,  callin*  for  you,  not  more'n 
an  hour  ago." 

Tessie,  taking  the  hatpins  out  of  her  hat  on  her 
way  upstairs,  met  this  coolly.  "Yeh,  I  ran  into 
her  comin'  back." 

Upstairs,  lying  fully  dressed  on  her  hard  little 
bed,  she  stared  up  into  the  darkness,  thinking,  her 
hands  limp  at  her  sides.  Oh,  well,  what's  the 
diff  ?  You  had  to  make  the  best  of  it.  Everybody 
makin'  a  fuss  about  the  soldiers :  f  eedin'  'em,  and 
askin5  'em  to  their  houses,  and  sendin'  'em  things, 
and  givin'  dances  and  picnics  and  parties  so  they 
wouldn't  be  lonesome.  Chuck  had  told  her  all 
about  it.  The  other  boys  told  the  same.  They 
could  just  pick  and  choose  their  good  times. 
Tessie's  mind  groped  about,  sensing  a  certain  in 
justice.  How  about  the  girls?  She  didn't  put  it 
thus  squarely.  Hers  was  not  a  logical  mind, 
trained  to  think.  Easy  enough  to  paw  over  the 
menfolks  and  get  silly  over  brass  buttons  and  a 
uniform.  She  put  it  that  way.  She  thought  of 
the  refrain  of  a  popular  song:  "What  Are  You 
Going  to  Do  to  Help  the  Boys?"  Tessie,  smiling 
a  crooked  little  smile  up  there  in  the  darkness, 
parodied  the  words  deftly:  "What're  you  going 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  189 

to  do  to  help  the  girls?  "  she  demanded.     "  What're 

you  going  to  do "     She  rolled  over  on  one  side 

and  buried  her  head  in  her  arms. 

There  was  news  again  next  morning  at  the 
watch  factory.  Tessie  of  the  old  days  had  never 
needed  to  depend  on  the  other  girls  for  the  latest 
bit  of  gossip.  Her  alert  eye  and  quick  ear  had 
always  caught  it  first.  But  of  late  she  had  led  a 
cloistered  existence,  indifferent  to  the  world 
about  her.  The  Chippewa  Courier  went  into 
the  newspaper  pile  behind  the  kitchen  door  with 
out  a  glance  from  Tessie's  incurious  eye. 

She  was  late  this  morning.  As  she  sat  down  at 
the  bench  and  fitted  her  glass  in  her  eye  the  chatter 
of  the  others,  pitched  in  the  high  key  of  unusual 
excitement,  penetrated  even  her  listlessness. 

"An'  they  say  she  never  screeched  or  fainted  or 
anything.  She  stood  there,  kind  of  quiet,  lookin' 
straight  ahead,  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  she  ran  to 
her  pa ' 

"Both  comin'  at  once,  like  that " 

"I  feel  sorry  for  her.  She  never  did  anything  to 
me.  She " 

Tessie  spoke,  her  voice  penetrating  the  staccato 
fragments  all  about  her  and  gathering  them  into  a 
whole.  "Say,  who's  the  heroine  of  this  picture? 
Somebody  flash  me  a  cut-in  so  I  can  kinda  follow 


190  HALF  PORTIONS 

the  story.     I  come  in  in  the  middle  of  the  reel,  I 

guess." 

They  turned  on  her  with  the  unlovely  eagerness  of 

those  who  have  ugly  news  to  tell.     They  all  spoke 

at  once,  in  short  sentences,  their  voices  high  with 

the  note  of  hysteria. 

"Angie  Hatton's  beau  was  killed  -  " 

"They    say    his    aireoplane    fell    ten    thousan' 


"The    news    come    only    last    evenin'    about 
eight  -  " 

"She  won't  see  nobody  but  her  pa  -  " 
Eight!  At  eight  Tessie  had  been  standing  out 
side  Hatton's  house  envying  Angie  and  hating  her. 
So  that  explained  the  people,  and  the  automobiles, 
and  the  excitement.  Tessie  was  not  receiving  the 
news  with  the  dramatic  reaction  which  its  pur 
veyors  felt  it  deserved.  Tessie,  turning  from  one 
to  the  other  quietly,  had  said  nothing.  She  was 
pitying  Angie.  Oh,  the  luxury  of  it!  Nap 
Ballou,  coming  in  swiftly  to  still  the  unwonted 
commotion  in  work  hours,  found  Tessie  the  only  one 
quietly  occupied  in  that  chatter-filled  room.  She 
was  smiling  as  she  worked.  Nap  Ballou,  bending 
over  her  on  some  pretence  that  deceived  no  one, 
spoke  low-voiced  in  her  ear.  But  she  veiled  her 
eyes  insolently  and  did  not  glance  up.  She  hummed 
contentedly  all  the  morning  at  her  tedious  work. 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  191 

had  promised  Nap  Ballou  to  go  picnicking 
with  him  Sunday.  Down  the  river,  boating,  with 
supper  on  shore)  The  small,  still  voice  within  her 
had  said:  "Don't  go!  Don't  go!"  But  the 
harsh,  high-pitched,  reckless  overtone  said:  "Go 
on!  Have  a  good  time.  Take  all  you  can  get.'* 
She  would  have  to  lie  at  home  and  she  did  it. 
Some  fabrication  about  the  girls  at  the  watch 
works  did  the  trick.  Fried  chicken,  chocolate 
cake.  She  packed  them  deftly  and  daintily. 
High-heeled  white  kid  shoes,  flimsy  blouse,  rustling 
skirt.  fftap  Ballou  was  waiting  for  her  over  in  the 
city  park^  She  saw  him  before  he  espied  her,. 
/He  was  leaning  against  a  tree  idly,  staring  straight 
ahead  with  queer,  lack-lustre  eyes)  Silhouetted 
there  against  the  tender  green  of  the  pretty  square 
he  looked  very  old,  somehow,  and  different — much 
older  than  he  looked  in  his  shop  clothes,  issuing 
orders.  Tessie  noticed  that  he  sagged  where  he 
should  have  stuck  out,  and  protruded  where  he 
should  have  been  flat.  There  flashed  across  her 
mind  a  vividly  clear  picture  of  Chuck  as  she  had 
last  seen  him:  brown,  fit,  high  of  chest,  flat  of 
stomach,  slim  of  flank. 

Ballou  saw  her.  {  He  straightened  and  came  to 
ward  her  swiftly:  ** Somebody  looks  mighty  sweet 
this  afternoon." 
v  Tessie  plumped  the  heavy  lunch  box  into  his 


192  HALF  PORTIONS 

aims.     "When  you  get  a  line  you  like  you  stick  to 
it,  don't  you?  '\ 

Down  at  the  boathouse  even  Tessie,  who  had 
confessed  ignorance  of  boats  and  oars,  knew  that 
Ballou  was  fumbling  clumsily.  He  stooped  to 
adjust  the  oars  to  the  oarlocks.  His  hat  was 
off.  His  hair  looked  very  gray  in  the  cruel 
spring  sunshine.  He  straightened  and  smiled  up 
at  her. 

"Ready  in  a  minute,  sweetheart,"  he  said.  He 
took  off  his  collar  and  turned  in  the  neckband  of 
his  shirt.  His  skin  was  very  white.  Tessie  felt  a 
little  shudder  of  disgust  sweep  over  her,  so  that  she 
stjimbled  a  little  as  she  stepped  into  the  boat. 
(  The  river  was  very  lovely.  Tessie  trailed  her 
fingers  in  the  water  and  told  herself  that  she  was 
having  a  grand  timej  She  told  Nap  the  same 
when  he  asked  her. 

"Having  a  good  time,  little  beauty?"  he  said. 
He  was  puffing  a  little  with  the  unwonted  exercise. 
Alcohol-atrophied  muscles  do  not  take  kindly  to 
rowing. 

Tessie  tried  some  of  her  old-time  pertness  of 
speech.  "Oh,  good  enough,  considerin*  the  com 
pany." 

He  laughed,  admiringly,  at  that  and  said  she  was 
a  card. 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  193 

vWhen  the  early  evening  came  on  they  made  a 
clumsy  landing  and  had  supper\£This  time  Nap 
fed  her  the  titbits,  though  she  protested.  "White 
meaj  for  you,|'  he  said,  f  with  your  skin  like  milBi" 

f  You  must  of  read  that  in  a  book,^  scoffed 
Tessie.  f  She  glanced  around  her  at  the  deepening 
shadows.  "We  haven't  got  much  time.  It  gets 
dark  so  early^f' 

fNo  hurry,'}  Nap  assured  her.  He  went  on 
eaung  in  a  leisurely,  finicking  sort  of  way,  though 
he  consumed  very  little  food  actually. 

"You're  not  eating  much,"  Tessie  said  once, 
half-heartedly.  She  decided  that  she  wasn't 
having  such  a  very  grand  time,  after  all,  and  that 
she  hated  his  teeth,  which  were  very  bad.  Now, 
Chuck's  strong,  whife  double  row 

TWell,"Jsh^said^"  let's  be  going*" 

£No  hurry ,^  again. 

Tessie  looked  up  at  that  with  the  instinctive 
fear  of  her  kind,  f  What  d'you  mean,  no  hurry! 
'Spect  to  stay  here  till  dark?^  She  laughed  at  her 
own  joke. 


She  got  up  then,  the  blood  in  her  face.  "Well, 
7  don't/ 

He  rose,  too.    f  Why  notr^'     \ 

?  Because  I  don't,  that's' why/ 'fshe  stooped 
and  began  picking  up  the  remnants  of  the  lunch,. 


194  HALF  PORTIONS 

placing  spoons  and  glass  bottles  swiftly  and 
thriftily  in  the  lunch  box.  Nap  stepped  around 
behind  her. 

"Let  me  help,"  he  said.  ;*  And  then  his  arm  was 
about  her  and  his  face  was  close  to  hers,  and 
Tessie  did  not  like  it.  He  kissed  her  after  a  little 
wordless  struggle.  And  then  she  knew.  Tessie's 
lips  were  not  virgin.  She  had  been  kissed  before. 
But  not  like  this.  Not  like  this!  She  struck  at 
him  furiously^  Across  her  mind  flashed  the 
memory  of  a  girl  who  had  worked  in  the  finishing 
room.  A  nice  girl,  too.  But  that  hadn't  helped 
her.  Nap  Ballou  was  laughing  a  little  as  he 
clasped  her. 

CAt  that  "she  heard  herself  saying:  "I'll  get 
Chuck  Mory  after  you — you  drunken  bum,  you! 
He'll  lick  you  black  and  blue.  He'll-^f- " 
/The  face,  with  the  ugly,  broken  brown  teeth, 
was  coming  close  again.  With  all  the  young 
strength  that  was  in  her  she  freed  one  hand  and 
clawed  at  that  face  from  eyes  to  chin.  A  howl  of 
pain  rewarded  her.  His  hold  loosened.  Like  a 
flash  she  was  off.  She  ran.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  her  feet  did  not  touch  the  earth.  Over 
brush,  through  bushes,  crashing  against  trees,  on 
and  on.  She  heard  him  following  her,  but  the 
broken-down  engine  that  was  his  heart  refused  to 
do  the  work.  She  ran  on^  though  her  fear  was  as 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  195 

** 

great  as  before.  Fear  of  what  might  have  hap 
pened  ...  to  her,  Tessie  Golden  .  .  . 
that  nobody  could  even  talk  fresh  to.  She  gave  a 
little  sob  of  fury  and  fatigue. f  She  was  stumbling 
now.  It  was  growing  dark.  She  ran  on  again,  in* 
fear  of  the  overtaking  darkness.)  It  was  easier 
now.  Not  so  many  trees  and  bushes,  f  She  came 
to  a  fence,  climbed  over  it,  lurched  as  she  landed, 
leaned  against  it  weakly  for  support,  one  hand  on 
her  aching  heart.  Before  her  was  the  Hatton 
summer  cottage,  dimly  outlined  in  the  twilight 
among  the  trees)  A  warm,  flickering  light  danced 
in  the  window. 

/Tessie  stood  a  moment,  breathing  painfully^) 
sobbingly.  f  Then,  with  a  little  instinctive  gesture, 
she  patted  her  hair,  tidied  her  blouse,  and  walked 
uncertainly  toward  the  house,  up  the  steps  to  the 
doory  She  stood  there  a  moment,  swaying  slightly. 
Somebody 'd  be  there.  The  light.  The  woman 
who  cooked  for  them  or  the  man  who  took  care  of 

the  place.     Somebody 'd ^ 

/She  knocked  at  the  door  feebly-?  She'd  tell  'em 
she  had  lost  her  way  and  got  scared  when  it  began 
to  get  dark.  She  knocked  again,  louder  now. 
Footsteps.  She  braced  herself  and  even  arranged 
a  crooked  smile.  'The  door  opened  wide.  Old 
Man  Hatton !  I 

She  looked  up  at  him,  terror  and  relief  in  her 


196  HALF  PORTIONS 

face.  He  peered  over  his  glasses  at  her.  "Who  is 
it?"  Tessie  had  not  known,  somehow,  that  his 
face  was  so  kindly. 

Tessie's  carefully  planned  story  crumbled  into 
nothingness.     "It's  me!"  she  whimpered.     "It's 
me!" 
I  He  reached  out  and  put  a  hand  on  her  arm  and 

drew  her  inside! 

«*•*'*'  » 

?  Angie!     Angie!     Here's  a  poor  little  kid^l — " 

Tessie  clutched  frantically  at  the  last  crumbs  of 
her  pride.  She  tried  to  straighten,  to  smile  with 
her  old  bravado.  What  was  that  story  she  had 
plapned  to  tell? 

f*Who  is  it,  dad?     Who ?"    Angie  Hatton 

came  into  the  hallway.  She  stared  at  Angie^ 
Then:  "Why,  my  dear!"  she  said.  "My  dear! 
Come  in  here." 

Angie  Hatton !  /Tessie  began  to  cry  weakly,  her 
face  buried  in  Angie  Hatton 's  expensive  blousejf 
Tessie  remembered  later  that  she  had  felt  no  sur 
prise  at  the  act. 

"There,  there!"  Angie  Hatton  was  saying. 
"Just  poke  up  the  fire,  dad.  And  get  something 
from  the  dining  room.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  To 
drink,  you  know.  Something " 

Then  Old  Man  Hatton  stood  over  her,  holding  a 
small  glass  to  her  lips.  Tessie  drank  it  obediently, 
made  a  wry  little  face,  coughed,  wiped  her  eyes, 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  197 

and  sat  up.  She  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  like 
a  trapped  little  animal.  She  put  a  hand  to  her 
tousled  head. 

"That's  all  right,"  Angie  Hatton  assured  her. 
"You  can  fix  it  after  a  while." 

There  they  were,  the  three  of  them:  Old 
Man  Hatton  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  looking 
benignly  down  upon  her;  Angie  seated,  with 
some  knitting  in  her  hands,  as  if  entertaining 
bedraggled,  tearstained  young  ladies  at  dusk 
were  an  everyday  occurrence;  Tessie,  twisting 
her  handkerchief  in  a  torment  of  embarrassment. 
But  they  asked  no  questions,  these  two.  They 
evinced  no  curiosity  about  this  dishevelled 
creature  who  had  flung  herself  in  upon  their 
decent  solitude. 

Tessie  stared  at  the  fire.  She  looked  up  at  Old 
Man  Hatton's  face  and  opened  her  lips.  She 
looked  down  and  shut  them  again.  Then  she 
flashed  a  quick  look  at  Angie,  to  see  if  she  could 
detect  there  some  suspicion,  some  disdain.  None. 
Angie  Hatton  looked — well,  Tessie  put  it  to  her 
self,  thus:  "She  looks  like  she'd  cried  till  she 
couldn't  cry  no  more — only  inside." 

(And  then,  surprisingly,  Tessie  began  to  talk.) 
"1  wouldn't  never  have  gone  with  this  fella,  only 
Chuck,  he  was  gone.  All  the  boys're  gone.  It's 
fierce.  You  get  scared,  sittin'  home,  waitin',  and 


198  HALF  PORTIONS 

they're  in  France  and  every wheres,  learnin'  French 
and  everything,  and  meetin'  grand  people  and 
havin'  a  fuss  made  over  'em.  So  I  got  mad  and 
said  I  didn't  care,  I  wasn't  goin'  to  squat  home  all 
my  life,  waitin' 

Angie  Hatton  had  stopped  knitting  now.  Old 
Man  Hatton  was  looking  down  at  her  very  kindly. 
And  so  Tessie  went  on.  The  pent-up  emotions 
and  thoughts  of  these  past  months  were  finding  an 
outlet  at  last.  These  things  which  she  had  never 
been  able  to  discuss  with  her  mother  she  now  was 
laying  bare  to  Angie  Hatton  and  Old  Man  Hatton ! 
They  a^ked  no  questions.  They  seemed  to  under 
stand^  Once  Old  Man  Hatton  interrupted  with: 
"So  that's  the  kind  of  fellow  they've  got  as  escape 
ment-room  foreman,  eh?  " 

Tessie,  whose  mind  was  working  very  clearly 
now,  put  out  a  quick  hand.  "Say,  it  wasn't  his 
fault.  He's  a  bum,  all  right,  but  I  knew  it,  didn't 
I?  It  was  me.  I  didn't  care.  Seemed  to  me  it 
didn't  make  no  difference  who  I  went  with,  but  it 
does."  She  looked  down  at  her  hands  clasped  so 
tightly  in  her  lap. 

"Yes,  it  makes  a  whole  lot  of  difference,"  Angie 
agreed,  and  looked  up  at  her  father. 

At  that  Tessie  blurted  her  last  desperate  prob 
lem:  "He's  learnin' all  kind  of  new  things.  Me, 
I  ain't  learnin'  anything.  When  Chuck  comes 


UN  MORSO  DOO  PANG  199 

\ 

home   he'll    just    think    I'm    dumb,    that's    alL 
He--" 

"What  kind  of  thing  would  you  like  to  learn, 
Tessie,  so  that  when  Chuck  comes  home  - 

Tessie  looked  ui>  then,  her  wide  mouth  quivering 
with  eagerness.  |  I'd  like  to  learn  to  swim  —  and 
row  a  boat  —  and  play  ball  —  like  the  rich  girls  — 
like  thfcv  girls  that's  makin'  such  a  fuss  over  the 
soldiers/ 

Angie  Hatton  was  not  laughing.  So,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  Tessie  brought  out  the  worst 
of  it.  ''"And  French.  I'd  like  to  learn  to  talk 
French.^ 

^rgv*       ^ 

$0ld  Man  Hatton  had  been  surveying  his  shoe,?, 
his  mouth  grim.  He  looked  at  Angie  now  and 
smiled  a  little.  "  Well,  Angie,  it  looks  as  if  you'd 
found  your  job  right  here  at  home,  doesn't  ij? 
This  young  lady's  just  one  of  hundreds,  I  suppose. 
Hundreds.  You  can  have  the  whole  house  for 
them,  if  you  want  it,  Angie,  and  the  grounds,  and 
all  the  money  you  need.  I  guess  we've  kind  of 
overlooked  the  girls.  H'm,  Angie.  What  d'you 


But  s{Tessie^as  not  listening.     She  had  scarcely 
heard.     Her\face  was  white  with  earnestness^ 
vC'n  you  speak  French!" 
'Ties,"  Angie  answered^- 
"Well,'*  said  Tessie,  and  gulped  once,  |  well, 


200  HALF  PORTIONS 

how  do  you  say  in  French:  'Give  me  a^  piece  of 
bread'?     That's  what  I  want  to  learn  Grajjl" 

/Angle  Hatton  said  it  correctly. 

?'  That's  it  !     Wait  a  minute  !    Say  it  again,  will 

you?" 

Angie  said  it  again. 

Tessie  wet  her  lips.  Her  cheeks  were  smeared 
with  tears  and  dirt.  Her  hair  was  wild  and  her 
blouse  awry.  "Dormay-ma^un-morso-doo-pangj" 
she  articulated,  painfully.  (And  in  that  moment, 
as  she  put  her  hand  in  that  of  Chuck  Mory,  across 
the  ocean,  her  face  was  very  beautiful  to  see) 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT 

THEY  had  always  had  two  morning  papers — 
he    his,    she    hers.     The     Times.    Both. 
Nothing  could  illustrate  more  clearly  the 
plan  on  which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  T.  A.  Buck  conducted 
their  married  life.     Theirs  was  the  morning  calm 
and  harmony  which  comes  to  two  people  who  are 
free  to  digest  breakfast  and  the  First  Page  simul 
taneously  with  no — "Just  let  me  see  the  inside 
sheet,  will  you,  dear?  "  to  mar  the  day's  beginning. 

In  the  days  when  she  had  been  Mrs.  Emma 
McChesney,  travelling  saleswoman  for  the  T.  A. 
Buck  Featherloom  Petticoat  Company,  New 
York,  her  perusal  of  the  morning's  news  had  been, 
perforce,  a  hasty  process,  accomplished  between 
trains,  or  in  a  small-town  hotel  'bus,  jolting  its  way 
to  the  depot  for  the  7.52;  or  over  an  American-plan 
breakfast  throughout  which  seven  eighths  of  her 
mind  was  intent  on  the  purchasing  possibilities  of 
a  prospective  nine  o'clock  skirt  buyer.  There  was 
no  need  now  of  haste,  but  the  habit  of  years  still 
clung.  From  eight-thirty  to  eight  thirty-five  A.  M. 
Emma  McChesney  Buck  was  always  in  partial 
eclipse  behind  the  billowing  pages  of  her  newspaper. 

201 


202  HALF  PORTIONS 

Only  the  tip  of  her  topmost  coil  of  bright  hair  was 
visible.  She  read  swiftly,  daritng  from  war  news 
to  health  hints,  from  stock  market  to  sport  page, 
and  finding  something  of  interest  in  each.  For 
her  there  was  nothing  cryptic  in  a  headline  such  as 
"Rudie  Slams  One  Home";  and  Do  pfd  followed 
by  dotted  lines  and  vulgar  fractions  were  to  her  as 
easily  translated  as  the  Daily  Hint  From  Paris. 
Hers  was  the  photographic  eye  and  the  alert  brain 
that  can  film  a  column  or  a  page  at  a  glance. 

Across  the  table  her  husband  sat  turned  slightly 
sidewise  in  his  chair,  his  paper  folded  in  a  tidy 
oblong.  He  read  down  one  column,  top  of  the 
next  and  down  that,  seriously  and  methodically; 
giving  to  toast  or  coffee-cup  the  single-handed  and 
groping  attention  of  one  whose  interest  is  else 
where.  The  light  from  the  big  bay  window  fell  on 
the  printed  page  and  cameoed  his  profile.  After 
three  years  of  daily  contact  with  it,  Emma  still 
caught  herself  occasionally  gazing  with  apprecia 
tion  at  that  clear-cut  profile  and  the  clean,  shining 
line  of  his  hair  as  it  grew  away  from  the  temple. 

"T.  A.,"  she  had  announced  one  morning,  to  his 
mystification,  "you're  the  Francis  X.  Bushman  of 
the  breakfast  table.  I  believe  you  sit  that  way 
purposely." 

"  Francis  X ?  "  He  was  not  a  follower  of  the 

film*. 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT         203 

Emma  elucidated.  "Discoverer  and  world's 
champion  exponent  of  the  side  face." 

"I  might  punish  you,  Emma,  by  making  a  pun 
about  its  all  being  Greek  to  me,  but  I  shan't." 
He  returned  to  Page  Two,  Column  Four. 

Usually  their  conversation  was  comfortably 
monosyllabic  and  disjointed,  as  is  the  breakfast 
talk  of  two  people  who  understand  each  other. 
Amicable  silence  was  the  rule,  broken  only  by  the 
rustle  of  paper,  the  clink  of  china,  an  occasional, 
"Toast,  dear?"  And  when  Buck,  in  a  low,  vibrat 
ing  tone  (slightly  muffled  by  buttered  corn  muffin) 
said,  "Dogs!"  Emma  knew  he  was  persuing  the 
daily  schrecklickkeit. 

Upon  this  cozy  scene  Conservation  cast  his 
gaunt  shadow.  It  was  in  June,  the  year  of 
America's  Great  Step,  that  Emma,  examining  her 
household,  pronounced  it  fattily  degenerate,  with 
complications,  and  performed  upon  it  a  severe  and 
skilful  surgical  operation.  Among  the  rest: 

"One  morning  paper  ought  to  be  enough  for  any 
husband  and  wife  who  aren't  living  on  a  Boffin 
basis.  There'll  be  one  copy  of  the  Times  delivered 
at  this  house  in  the  future,  Mr.  Buck.  We  might 
match  pennies  for  it,  mornings." 

It  lay  there  on  the  hall  table  that  first  morning, 
an  innocent  oblong,  its  headlines  staring  up  at 
them  with  inky  eyes. 


204  HALF  PORTIONS 

"Paper,  T.  A.,"  she  said,  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"You  take  it,  dear.5* 

"Oh,  no!    No." 

She  poured  the  coffee,  trying  to  keep  her  gaze 
away  from  the  tantalizing  tail-end  of  the  headline 
at  whose  first  half  she  could  only  guess. 

"By  Jove,  Emma!  Listen  to  this!  Pershing 
says  if  we  have  one  m 

"Stop  right  there!  We've  become  pretty  well 
acquainted  in  the  last  three  years,  T.  A.  But  if 
you  haven't  learned  that  if  there's  one  thing  I  can't 
endure,  it's  being  fed  across  the  table  with  scraps 
of  the  day's  news,  I  shall  have  to  consider  our 
marriage  a  failure." 

"  Oh,  very  well.  I  merely  thought  you'd  be " 

"I  am.  But  there's  something  about  having  it 
read  to  you " 

On  the  second  morning  Emma,  hurriedly  fasten 
ing  the  middle  button  of  her  blouse  on  her  way 
downstairs,  collided  with  her  husband,  who  was 
shrugging  himself  into  his  coat.  They  continued 
their  way  downstairs  with  considerable  dignity 
and  pronounced  leisure.  The  paper  lay  on  the 
hall  table.  They  reached  for  it.  There  was  a 
moment — just  the  fraction  of  a  minute — when  each 
clutched  a  corner  of  it,  eying  the  other  grimly. 
Then  both  let  go  suddenly,  as  though  the  paper  had 
burned  their  fingers.  They  stared  at  each  other. 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT        205 

surprise  and  horror  in  their  gaze.  The  paper  fell  to 
the  floor  with  a  little  slap.  Both  stooped  for  it, 
apologetically.  Their  heads  bumped.  They  stag 
gered  back,  seini-stunned. 

Emma  found  herself  laughing,  rather  wildly. 
Buck  joined  in  after  a  moment — a  rueful  laugh. 
She  was  the  first  to  recover. 

"  That  settles  it.  I'm  willing  to  eat  trick  bread 
and  whale  meat  and  drink  sugarless  coffee,  but  I 
draw  the  line  at  hating  my  husband  for  the  price  of 
a  newspaper  subscription.  White  paper  may  be 
scarce  but  so  are  husbands.  It's  cheaper  to  get 
two  newspapers  than  to  set  up  two  establishments." 

They  were  only  two  among  many  millions  who, 
at  that  time,  were  playing  an  amusing  and  fashion 
able  game  called  Win  the  War.  They  did  not 
realize  that  the  game  was  to  develop  into  a  grim 
and  magnificently  functioning  business  to  whose 
demands  they  would  cheerfully  sacrifice  all  that 
they  most  treasured. 

Of  late,  Emma  had  spent  less  and  less  time  in 
the  offices  of  the  Featherloom  Company.  For 
more  than  ten  years  that  flourishing  business,  and 
the  career  of  her  son,  Jock  McChesney,  had  been 
the  twin  orbits  about  which  her  existence  had  re 
volved.  But  Jock  McChesney  was  a  man  of 
family  now,  with  a  wife,  two  babies,  and  an  un 
canny  advertising  sense  that  threatened  to  put  his 


206  HALF  PORTIONS 

name  on  the  letterhead  of  the  Raynor  Advertising 
Company  of  Chicago.  As  for  the  Featherloom 
factory — it  seemed  to  go  of  its  own  momentum. 
After  her  marriage  to  the  firm's  head,  Emma's 
interest  in  the  business  was  unflagging. 

"Now  look  here,  Emma,"  Buck  would  say. 
"You've  given  enough  to  this  firm.  Play  a  while. 
Cut  up.  Forget  you're  the  'And  Company'  in 
T.  A.  Buck  &  Co." 

"But  I'm  so  used  to  it.  I'd  miss  it  so.  You 
know  what  happened  that  first  year  of  our  mar 
riage  when  I  tried  to  do  the  duchess.  I  don't 
know  how  to  loll.  If  you  take  Featherlooms  away 
from  me  I'll  degenerate  into  a  Madam  Chairman. 
You'll  see." 

She  might  have,  too,  if  the  War  had  not  come 
along  and  saved  her. 

By  midsummer  the  workrooms  were  turning  out 
strange  garments,  such  as  gray  and  khaki  flannel 
shirts,  flannelette  one-piece  pajamas,  and  woollen 
bloomers,  all  intended  for  the  needs  of  women  war 
workers  going  abroad. 

Emma  had  dropped  into  the  workroom  one  day 
and  had  picked  up  a  half -finished  gray  flannel  gar 
ment.  She  eyed  it  critically,  her  deft  fingers  ma 
nipulating  the  neckband.  A  little  frown  gathered 
between  her  eyes. 

"Somehow  a  woman  in  a  flannel  shirt  always 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT         207 

looks  as  if  she  had  quinsy.  It's  the  collar.  They 
cut  them  like  a  man's  small-size.  But  a  woman's 
neck  is  as  different  from  a  man's  as  her  collarbone 


is." 


She  picked  up  a  piece  of  flannel  and  smoothed 
it  on  the  cutting-table.  The  head  designer  had 
looked  on  in  disapproval  while  her  employer's  wife 
had  experimented  with  scraps  of  cloth,  and  pine, 
and  chalk,  and  scissors.  But  Emma  had  gone  on 
serenely  cutting  and  snipping  and  pinning.  They 
made  up  samples  of  service  shirts  with  the  new 
neck-hugging  collar  and  submitted  them  to  Miss 
Nevins,  the  head  of  the  woman's  uniform  depart 
ment  at  Fyfe  &  Gordon's.  That  astute  lady  had 
been  obliged  to  listen  to  scores  of  canteeners,  nurses, 
secretaries,  and  motor  leaguers  who,  standing  be 
fore  a  long  mirror  in  one  of  the  many  fitting-rooms, 
had  gazed,  frowned,  fumbled  at  collar  and  top 
most  button,  and  said,  "But  it  looks  so — so  lumpy 
around  the  neck." 

Miss  Kate  Nevins's  reply  to  this  plaint  was: 
"Oh,  when  you  get  your  tie  on " 

"Perhaps  they'll  let  me  wear  a  turn-down 
collar." 

"Absolutely  against  regulations.  The  rules 
strictly  forbid  anything  but  the  high,  close-fitting 
collar." 

The  fair  war  worker  would  sigh,  mutter  something 


208  HALF  PORTIONS 

about  supposing  they'd  shoot  you  at  sunrise  for 
wearing  a  becoming  shirt,  and  order  six,  grumbling. 

Kate  Nevins  had  known  Mrs.  T.  A.  Buck  in  that 
lady's  Emma  McChesney  days.  At  the  end  of  the 
first  day's  trial  of  the  new  Featherloom  shirt  she 
had  telephoned  the  Featherloom  factory  and  had 
asked  for  Emma  McChesney.  People  who  had 
known  her  by  that  name  never  seemed  able  to  get 
the  trick  of  calling  her  by  any  other. 

With  every  fitting-room  in  the  Fyfe  &  Gordon 
establishment  demanding  her  attention,  Miss 
Nevins's  conversation  was  necessarily  brief.  "Em 
ma  MeChesney?  .  .  .  Kate  Nevins.  .  .  . 
Who's  responsible  for  the  collar  on  those  Feather- 
loom  shirts?  ...  I  was  sure  of  it.  ... 
No  regular  designer  could  cut  a  collar  like  that. 
Takes  a  genius.  .  .  .  H'm?  .  .  .  Well,  I 
mean  it.  I'm  going  to  write  to  Washington  and 
have  'em  vote  you  a  distinguished  service  medal. 
This  is  the  first  day  since  last  I-don't-know-when 
that  hasn't  found  me  in  the  last  stages  of  nervous 
exhaustion  at  six  o'clock.  .  .  .  All  these 
women  warriors  are  willing  to  bleed  and  die  for 
their  country,  but  they  want  to  do  it  in  a  collar 
that  fits,  and  I  don't  blame  'em.  After  I  saw  the 
pictures  of  that  Russian  Battalion  of  Death,  I 
understood  why.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  know  I  oughtn't 
to  say  that,  but  .  .  ." 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT        209 

By  autumn  Emma  was  wearing  one  of  those 
Featherloom  service  shirts  herself.  It  was  inevi 
table  that  a  woman  of  her  executive  ability,  initia 
tive,  and  detail  sense  should  be  pressed  into  active 
service.  November  saw  Fifth  Avenue  a-glitter 
with  uniforms,  and  one  third  of  them  seemed  to  be 
petticoated.  The  Featherloom  factory  saw  little 
of  Emma  now.  She  bore  the  title  of  Commandant 
with  feminine  captains,  lieutenants,  and  girl 
workers  under  her;  and  her  blue  uniform,  as  she 
herself  put  it,  was  so  a- jingle  with  straps,  buckles, 
belts,  bars,  and  bolts  that  when  she  first  put  it  on 
she  felt  like  a  jail. 

She  left  the  house  at  eight  in  the  morning  now. 
Dinner  time  rarely  found  her  back  in  Sixty-third 
Street.  Buck  was  devoting  four  evenings  a  week 
to  the  draft  board.  At  the  time  of  the  second 
Liberty  Loan  drive  in  the  autumn  he  had  deserted 
Featherlooms  for  bonds.  His  success  was  due  to 
the  commodity  he  had  for  sale,  the  type  of  person 
to  whom  he  sold  it,  and  his  own  selling  methods 
and  personality.  There  was  something  about  this 
slim,  leisurely  man,  with  the  handsome  eyes  and 
the  quiet  voice,  that  convinced  and  impressed  you. 

"It's  your  complete  lack  of  eagerness  in  the 
transaction,  too,"  Emma  remarked  after  watching 
him  land  a  twenty-five-thousand-dollar  bond 
pledge,  the  buyer  a  business  rival  of  the  Feather- 


210  HALF  PORTIONS 

loom  Petticoat  Company.  "You  make  it  seem  a 
privilege,  not  a  favour.  A  man  with  your  method 
could  sell  sandbags  in  the  Sahara." 

Sometimes  the  two  dined  downtown  together. 
Sometimes  they  scarcely  saw  each  other  for  days 
on  end.  One  afternoon  at  5.30,  Emma,  on  duty 
bound,  espied  him  walking  home  up  Fifth  Avenue, 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  She  felt  a  little 
pang  as  she  watched  the  easy,  graceful  figure 
swinging  its  way  up  the  brilliant,  flag-decked 
avenue.  She  had  given  him  so  little  time  and 
thought;  she  had  bestowed  upon  the  house  such 
scant  attention  in  the  last  few  weeks.  She  turned 
abruptly  and  crossed  the  street,  dodging  the  late 
afternoon  traffic  with  a  sort  of  expert  recklessness. 
She  almost  ran  after  the  tall  figure  that  was  now 
a  block  ahead  of  her,  and  walking  fast.  She  caught 
up  with  him,  matched  his  stride,  and  touched  his 
arm  lightly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  aren't  you  Mr.  T.  A. 
Buck?" 

"Yes." 

"How  do  you  do!     I'm  Mrs.  Buck." 

Then  they  had  giggled  together,  deliciously,  and 
he  had  put  a  firm  hand  on  the  smartly  tailored  blue 
serge  sleeve. 

"I  thought  so.  That  being  the  case,  you're 
coming  home  along  o '  me,  young  'ooman." 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT        211 

"Can't  do  it.  I'm  on  my  way  to  the  Ritz  to 
meet  a  dashing  delegation  from  Serbia.  You 
never  saw  such  gorgeous  creatures.  All  gold  and 
green  and  red,  with  swords,  and  snake-work,  and 
glittering  boots.  They'd  make  a  musical-comedy 
soldier  look  like  an  undertaker.'* 

There  came  a  queer  little  look  into  his  eyes. 
"But  this  isn't  a  musical  comedy,  dear.  These 

men  are Look  here,  Emma.  I  want  to  talk  to 

you.  Let's  walk  home  together  and  have  dinner 
decently  in  our  own  dining  room.  There  are 
things  at  the  office " 

"S'impossible,  Mr.  Buck.  I'm  late  now.  And 
you  know  perfectly  well  there  are  two  vice-com 
mandants  ready  to  snatch  my  shoulder-straps." 

"Emma!     Emma!" 

At  his  tone  the  smiling  animation  of  her  face 
was  dimmed.  "What's  gone  wrong?" 

"Nothing.  Everything.  At  least,  nothing 
that  I  can  discuss  with  you  at  the  corner  of  Fifth 
Avenue  and  Forty-fifth  Street.  When  does  this 
Serbian  thing  end?  I'll  call  for  you." 

"There's  no  telling.  Anyway,  the  Farmings 
will  drive  me  home,  thanks,  dear." 

He  looked  down  at  her.  She  was  unbelievably 
girlish  and  distingue  in  the  blue  uniform;  a 
straight,  slim  figure,  topped  by  an  impudent  cocked 
hat.  The  flannel  shirt  of  workaday  service  was 


212  HALF  PORTIONS 

replaced  to-day  by  a  severely  smart  affair  of  white 
silk,  high-collared,  stitched,  expensively  simple. 
And  yet  he  frowned  as  he  looked. 

"Fisk  got  his  exemption  papers  to-day."  With 
apparent  irrelevance. 

"  Yes? "  She  was  glancing  sharply  up  and  down 
the  thronged  street.  "Better  call  me  a  cab,  dear. 
I'm  awfully  late.  Oh,  well,  with  his  wife  prac 
tically  an  invalid,  and  all  the  expense  of  the  baby's 

illness,  and  the  funeral The  Ritz,  dear.  And 

tell  him  to  hurry."  She  stepped  into  the  cab,  a 
little  nervous  frown  between  her  eyes. 

But  Buck,  standing  at  the  curb,  seemed  bent  on 
delaying  her.  "Fisk  told  me  the  doctor  said  all 
she  needs  is  a  couple  of  months  at  a  sanitarium, 
where  she  can  be  bathed  and  massaged  and  fed 
with  milk.  And  if  Fisk  could  go  to  a  camp  now 
he'd  have  a  commission  in  no  time.  He's  had 
training,  you  know.  He  spent  his  vacation  last 
summer  at  Plattsburg." 

"But  he's  due  on  his  advance  spring  trip  in  two 
or  three  weeks,  isn't  he?  ...  I  really  must 
hurry,  T.  A." 

"Ritz,"  said  Buck,  shortly,  to  the  chauffeur. 
"And  hurry."  He  turned  away  abruptly,  without 
a  backward  glance.  Emma's  head  jerked  over 
her  shoulder  in  surprise.  But  he  did  not  turn. 
The  tall  figure  disappeared.  Emma's  taxi  crept 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT        213 

into  the  stream.  But  uppermost  in  her  mind  was 
not  the  thought  of  Serbians,  uniforms,  Fisk,  or  Ritz, 
but  of  her  husband's  right  hand,  which,  as  he  turned 
away  from  the  cab,  had  been  folded  tight  into  a  fist. 

She  meant  to  ask  an  explanation  of  the  clenched 
fingers;  but  the  Serbians,  despite  their  four  tragic 
years,  turned  out  to  be  as  sprightly  as  their  uni 
forms,  and  it  was  past  midnight  when  the  Fannings 
dropped  her  at  her  door.  Her  husband  was 
rather  ostentatiously  asleep.  As  she  doffed  her 
warlike  garments,  her  feminine  canniness  warned 
her  that  this  was  no  time  for  explanations.  To 
morrow  morning  would  be  better. 

But  next  morning's  breakfast  turned  out  to  be 
all  Jock. 

A  letter  from  Grace,  his  wife.  Grace  McChesney 
had  been  Grace  Gait,  one  of  the  youngest  and 
cleverest  women  advertising  writers  in  the  pro 
fession.  When  Jock  was  a  cub  in  the  Raynor 
office  she  had  been  turning  out  compelling  copy. 
They  had  been  married  four  years.  Now  Jock 
ruled  a  mahogany  domain  of  his  own  in  the  Ray 
nor  suite  overlooking  the  lake  in  the  great  Michi 
gan  Avenue  building.  And  Grace  was  saying, 
"Eat  the  crust,  girlie.  It's  the  crust  that  makes 
your  hair  grow  curly." 

Emma,  uniformed  for  work,  read  hasty  extracts 
from  Grace's  letter.  Buck  listened  in  silence. 


214  HALF  PORTIONS 

"  You  wouldn't  know  Jock.  He's  restless, 
irritable,  moody.  And  the  queer  part  of  it  is  he 
doesn't  know  it.  He  tries  to  be  cheerful,  and  I 
could  weep  to  see  him.  He  has  tried  to  cover  it 
up  with  every  kind  of  war  work  from  Red  Crossing 
to  Liberty  Loaning,  and  from  writing  free  full- 
page  national  advertising  copy  to  giving  up  his 
tobacco  money  to  the  smoke  fund.  And  he's 
miserable.  He  wants  to  get  into  it.  And  he 
ought.  But  you  know  I  haven't  been  really 
husky  since  Buddy  came.  Not  ill,  but  the  doctor 
says  it  will  be  another  six  months  before  I'm  my 
self,  really.  If  I  had  only  myself  to  think  of — how 
simple!  But  two  kiddies  need  such  a  lot  of  things. 
I  could  get  a  job  at  Raynor's.  They  need  writers. 
Jock  says,  bitterly,  that  all  the  worth-while  men 
have  left.  Don't  think  I'm  complaining.  I'm 
just  trying  to  see  my  way  clear,  and  talking 
to  someone  who  understands  often  clears  the 
way." 

"Well!"  said  Emma. 

And,  "Well?  "said  T.  A. 

She  sat  fingering  the  letter,  her  breakfast  cooling 
before  her.  "Of  course,  Jock  wants  to  get  into  it. 
I  wish  he  could.  I'd  be  so  proud  of  him.  He'd 
be  beautiful  in  khaki.  But  there's  work  to  do 
right  here.  And  he  ought  to  be  willing  to  wait  six 
months." 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT         215 

"They  can't  wait  six  months  over  there,  Emma. 
They  need  him  now." 

"Oh,  come,  T.  A. !     One  man— 

"Multiplied  by  a  million.  Look  at  Fisk.  Just 
such  another  case.  Look  at 

The  shrill  summons  of  the  telephone  cut  him 
short.  Emma's  head  came  up  alertly.  She 
glanced  at  her  wrist- watch  and  gave  a  little  ex 
clamation  of  horror. 

"That's  for  me!  I'm  half  an  hour  late!  The 
first  time,  too."  She  was  at  the  telephone  a 
second  later,  explanatory,  apologetic.  Then  back 
in  the  dining-room  doorway,  her  cheeks  flushed, 
tugging  at  her  gloves,  poised  for  flight.  "Sorry, 
dear.  But  this  morning  was  so  important,  and 
that  letter  about  Jock  upset  me.  I'm  afraid  I'm 
a  rotten  soldier." 

"I'm  afraid  you  are,  Emma." 

She  stared  at  that.  "Why !  Oh,  you're  still 

angry  at  something.  Listen,  dear — I'll  call  for 
you  at  the  office  to-night  at  five,  and  we'll  walk 
home  together.  Wait  for  me.  I  may  be  a  few 
minutes  late " 

She  was  off.  The  front  door  slammed  sharply. 
Buck  sat  very  still  for  a  long  minute,  staring  down 
at  the  coffee  cup  whose  contents  he  did  not  mean 
to  drink.  The  light  from  the  window  cameoed  his 
fine  profile.  And  you  saw  that  his  jaw  was  set. 


HALF  PORTIONS 

His  mind  was  a  thousand  miles  away,  in  Chicago, 
Illinois,  with  the  boy  who  wanted  to  fight  and 
couldn't. 

Emma,  flashing  down  Fifth  Avenue  as  fast  as 
wheels  and  traffic  rules  would  permit,  saw  nothing 
of  the  splendid  street.  Her  mind  was  a  thousand 
miles  away,  in  Chicago,  Illinois. 

And  a  thousand  miles  away,  in  Chicago,  Illinois, 
Jock  McChesney,  three  hours  later,  was  slamming 
down  the  two  big  windows  of  his  office.  From  up 
the  street  came  the  sound  of  a  bugle  and  of  a  band 
playing  a  brisk  march.  And  his  office  windows 
looked  out  upon  Michigan  Avenue.  If  you  know 
Chicago,  you  know  the  building  that  housed  the 
Raynor  offices — a  great  gray  shaft,  towering  even 
above  its  giant  neighbours,  its  head  in  the  clouds, 
its  face  set  toward  the  blue  beauty  of  Lake  Michi 
gan.  Until  very  recently  those  windows  of  his 
office  had  been  a  source  of  joy  and  inspiration  to 
Jock  McChesney.  The  green  of  Grant  Park  just 
below.  The  tangle  of  I.  C.  tracks  beyond  that, 
and  the  great,  gracious  lake  beyond  that,  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  see.  He  had  seen  the  changes  the 
year  had  brought.  The  lake  dotted  with  sinister 
gray  craft.  Dog  tents  in  Grant  Park,  sprung  up 
overnight  like  brown  mushrooms.  Men — mere 
boys,  most  of  them — awkward  in  their  workaday 
clothes  of  office  and  shop,  drilling,  wheeling, 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT        217 

marching  at  the  noon  hour.  And  parades,  and 
parades,  and  parades.  At  first  Jock,  and,  in  fact, 
the  entire  office  staff — heads  of  departments, 
writers,  secretaries,  stenographers,  office  boys — • 
would  suspend  business  and  crowd  to  the  windows 
to  see  the  pageant  pass  in  the  street  below.  Stir 
ring  music,  khaki  columns,  flags,  pennants,  horses, 
bugles.  And  always  the  Jackie  band  from  the 
Great  Lakes  Station,  its  white  leggings  twinkling 
down  the  street  in  the  lead  of  its  six-foot-six 
contortionistic  drum-major. 

By  October  the  window-gazers,  watching  the 
parades  from  the  Raynor  windows,  were  mostly 
petticoated  and  exclamatory.  Jock  stayed  away 
from  the  window  now.  It  seemed  to  his  tortured 
mind  that  there  was  a  fresh  parade  hourly,  and 
that  bugles  and  bands  sounded  a  taunting  note. 

"Where  are  you  I  (sounded  the  bugle) 
Where  are  you  ? 
Where  are  YOU?!!! 
Where 
are 

you? 
Where — are — you-u-u-u 

He  slammed  down  the  windows,  summoned  a 
stenographer,  and  gave  out  dictation  in  a  loud, 
rasping  voice. 


218  HALF  PORTIONS 

"  Yours  of  the  tenth  at  hand,  and  contents  noted. 

In  reply  I  wish  to  say " 

(Boom!     Boom!     And  a  boom-boom-boom!) 
" — all  copy  for  the  Sans  Scent  Soap  is  now 

ready  for  your  approval  and  will  be  mailed  to  you 

to-day  under  separate  cover.     We  in   the  office 

think  that  this  copy  marks  a  new  record  in  soap 

advertising " 

(Over  there!     Over  there!     Send  the  word,  send 

the  word  over  there!) 

"Just  read  that  last  line  will  you,  Miss  Dugan?" 
"Over  th — I  mean,  'We  in  the  office  think  that 

this  copy  marks  a  new  record  in  soap  advertis- 

•  5  » 

"EPm.  Yes."  A  moment's  pause.  A  dreamy 
look  on  the  face  of  the  girl  stenographer.  Jock  in 
terpreted  it.  He  knew  that  the  stenographer  was 
in  the  chair  at  the  side  of  his  desk,  taking  his  dicta 
tion  accurately  and  swiftly,  while  the  spirit  of  the 
girl  herself  was  far  and  away  at  Camp  Grant  at 
Rockford,  Illinois,  with  an  olive-drab  unit  in  an 
olive-drab  world. 

" — and,  in  fact,  in  advertising  copy  of  any  de 
scription  that  has  been  sent  out  from  the  Raynor 
offices." 

The  girl's  pencil  flew  over  the  pad.  But  when 
Jock  paused  for  thought  or  breath  she  lifted  her 
head  and  her  eyes  grew  soft  and  bright,  and  her 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT         219 

foot,  in  its  absurd  high-heeled  gray  boot,  beat  a 
smart  left !     Left !     Left-right-left ! 

Something  of  this  picture  T.  A.  Buck  saw  in  his 
un tasted  coffee  cup.  Much  of  it  Emma  visualized 
in  her  speeding  motor  car.  All  of  it  Grace  knew 
by  heart  as  she  moved  about  the  new,  shining 
house  in  the  Chicago  suburb,  thinking,  planning; 
feeling  his  agony,  and  trying  not  to  admit  the  trans 
parency  of  the  look  about  her  hands  and  her 
temples.  So  much  for  Chicago, 

At  five  o'clock  Emma  left  the  war  to  its  own 
devices  and  dropped  in  at  the  loft  building  in 
which  Featherlooms  were  born  and  grew  up. 
Mike,  the  elevator  man,  twisted  his  gray  head 
about  at  an  unbelievable  length  to  gaze  apprecia 
tively  at  the  trim,  uniformed  figure. 

"Haven't  seen  you  around  fur  many  the  day. 
Mis'  Buck." 

"Been  too  busy,  Mike." 

Mike  turned  back  to  face  the  door.  "Well,  'tis 
a  great  responsibility,  runnin'  this  war,  an'  all." 
He  stopped  at  the  Featherloom  floor  and  opened 
the  door  with  his  grandest  flourish.  Emma 
glanced  at  him  quickly.  His  face  was  impassive. 
She  passed  into  the  reception  room  with  a  little 
jingling  of  buckles  and  strap  hooks. 

The  work  day  was  almost  ended.     The  display 


220  HALF  PORTIONS 

room  was  empty  of  buyers.  She  could  see  the 
back  of  her  husband's  head  in  his  office.  He  was 
busy  at  his  desk.  A  stock  girl  was  clearing  away 
the  piles  of  garments  that  littered  tables  and 
chairs.  At  the  window  near  the  door  Fisk,  the 
Western  territory  man,  stood  talking  with  O'Brien, 
city  salesman.  The  two  looked  around  at  her 
approach.  O'Brien's  face  lighted  up  with  admira 
tion.  Into  Fisk's  face  there  flashed  a  look  so 
nearly  resembling  resentment  that  Emma,  curious 
to  know  its  origin,  stopped  to  chat  a  moment  with 
the  two. 

Said  O'Brien,  the  gallant  Irishman,  "I'm  more 
resigned  to  war  this  minute,  Mrs.  Buck,  than  I've 
been  since  it  began." 

Emma  dimpled,  turned  to  Fisk,  stood  at  atten 
tion.  Fisk  said  nothing.  His  face  was  unsmiling. 
"Like  my  uniform?"  Emma  asked;  and  wished, 
somehow,  that  she  hadn't. 

Fisk  stared.  His  eyes  had  none  of  the  softness 
of  admiration.  They  were  hard,  resentful.  Sud 
denly,  "Like  it!  God!  I  wish  I  could  wear 
one ! "  He  turned  away,  abrup  tly .  O'Brien  threw 
him  a  sharp  look.  Then  he  cleared  his  throat, 
apologetically. 

Emma  glanced  down  at  her  own  trim  self — at 
her  stitched  seams,  her  tailored  lengths,  her  shining 
belt  and  buckles,  her  gloved  hands — and  suddenly 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT 

and  unaccountably  her  pride  in  them  vanished. 
Something — some  thing 

She  wheeled  and  made  for  Buck's  office,  her 
colour  high.  He  looked  up,  rose,  offered  her  a 
chair.  She  felt  strangely  ill  at  ease  there  in  the 
office  to  which  she  had  given  years  of  service. 
The  bookkeeper  in  the  glass-enclosed  cubby-hole 
across  the  little  hall  smiled  and  nodded  and 
called  through  the  open  door:  "My,  you're  a 
stranger,  Mrs.  Buck." 

"Be  with  you  in  a  minute,  Emma,"  said  T.  A. 
And  turned  to  his  desk  again.  She  rose  and 
strolled  toward  the  door,  restlessly.  "Don't 
hurry."  Out  in  the  showroom  again  she  saw  Fisk 
standing  before  a  long  table.  He  was  ticketing 
and  folding  samples  of  petticoats,  pajamas, 
blouses,  and  night-gowns.  His  cigar  was  gripped 
savagely  between  his  teeth  and  his  eyes  squinted, 
half  closed  through  the  smoke. 

She  strolled  over  to  him  and  fingered  the  cotton 
flannel  of  a  garment  that  lay  under  her  hand. 
"Spring  samples?" 

"Yes." 

"It  ought  to  be  a  good  trip.  They  say  the  West 
is  dripping  money,  war  or  no  war." 

"  'S  right." 

"How's  Gertie?" 

"Don't  get  me  started,  Mrs.  Buck.     That  girl! 


222  HALF  PORTIONS 

— say,  I  knew  what  she  was  when  I  married  her, 
and  so  did  you.  She  was  head  stenographer  here 
long  enough.  But  I  never  really  knew  that  kid 
until  now,  and  we've  been  married  two  years. 
You  know  what  the  last  year  has  been  for  her;  the 
baby  and  all.  And  then  losing  him.  And  do  you 
know  what  she  says !  That  if  there  was  somebody 
who  knew  the  Western  territory  and  could  cover 
it,  she'd  get  a  job  and  send  me  to  war.  Yessir! 
That's  Gert.  We've  been  married  two  years,  and 
she  says  herself  it's  the  first  really  happy  time 
she's  ever  known.  You  know  what  she  had  at 
home.  Why,  even  when  I  was  away  on  my  long 
spring  trip  she  used  to  say  it  wasn't  so  bad  being 
alone,  because  there  was  always  my  home-coming 
to  count  on.  How's  that  for  a  wife ! " 

"Gertie's  splendid,"  agreed  Emma.  And  won 
dered  why  it  sounded  so  lame. 

"You  don't  know  her.  Why,  when  it  comes  to 
patriotism,  she  makes  T.  R.  look  like  a  pacifist. 
She  says  if  she  could  sell  my  line  on  the  road,  she'd 
make  you  give  her  the  job  so  she  could  send  her  man 
to  war.  Gert  says  a  travelling  man's  wife  ought 
to  make  an  ideal  soldier's  wife,  anyway;  and  that 
if  I  went  it  would  only  be  like  my  long  Western  trip, 
multiplied  by  about  ten,  maybe.  That's  Gertie." 

Emma  was  fingering  the  cotton-flannel  garment 
on  the  table. 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT         223 

Buck  crossed  the  room  and  stood  beside  her. 
"Sorry  I  kept  you  waiting.  Three  of  the  boys 
were  called  to-day.  It  crippled  us  pretty  badly  in 
the  shipping  room.  Ready?" 

"Yes.  Good-night,  Charley.  Give  my  love  to 
Gertie." 

"Thanks,  Mrs.  Buck."  He  picked  up  his  cigar, 
took  an  apprehensive  puff,  and  went  on  ticketing 
and  folding.  There  was  a  grin  behind  the  cigar 
now. 

Into  the  late  afternoon  glitter  of  Fifth  Avenue. 
Five  o'clock  Fifth  Avenue.  Flags  of  every  nation, 
save  one.  Uniforms  of  every  blue  from  French  to 
navy;  of  almost  any  shade  save  field  green.  Pon 
gee-coloured  Englishmen,  seeming  seven  feet  high, 
to  a  man;  aviators  slim  and  elegant,  with  walking 
sticks  made  of  the  propeller  of  their  shattered 
planes,  with  a  notch  for  every  Hun  plane  bagged. 
Slim  girls,  exotic  as  the  orchids  they  wore,  gazing 
limpid-eyed  at  these  warrior  elegants.  Women 
uniformed  to  the  last  degree  of  tailored  exquisite- 
ness.  Girls,  war  accoutred,  who  brought  arms 
up  in  sharp  salute  as  they  passed  Emma.  Buck 
eyed  them  gravely,  hat  and  arm  describing  para 
bolas  with  increasing  frequency  as  they  approached 
Fiftieth  Street,  slackening  as  the  colourful  pageant 
grew  less  brilliant,  thinned,  and  faded  into  the 
park  mists. 


224  HALF  PORTIONS 

Emma's  cheeks  were  a  glorious  rose-pink. 
Head  high,  shoulders  back,  she  matched  her  hus 
band's  long  stride  every  step  of  the  way.  Her 
eyes  were  bright  and  very  blue. 

"  There's  a  beautiful  one,  T.  A. !  The  Canadian 
officer  with  the  limp.  They've  all  been  gassed, 
and  shot  five  times  in  the  thigh  and  seven  in  the 
shoulder,  and  yet  look  at  'em!  What  do  you 
suppose  they  were  when  they  were  new  if  they  can 
look  like  that,  damaged ! " 

Buck  cut  a  vicious  little  semi-circle  in  the  air 
with  his  walking  stick. 

"  I  know  now  how  the  father  of  the  Gracchi  felt, 
and  why  you  never  hear  him  mentioned." 

"Nonsense,  T.  A.  You're  doing  a  lot."  She 
did  not  intend  her  tone  to  be  smug;  but  if  she  had 
glanced  sidewise  at  her  husband,  she  might  have 
seen  the  pained  red  mount  from  chin  to  brow. 
She  did  not  seem  to  sense  his  hurt.  They  went  on, 
past  the  plaza  now.  Only  a  few  blocks  lay  be 
tween  them  and  their  home;  the  old  browns  tone 
house  that  had  been  New  York's  definition  of 
architectural  elegance  in  the  time  of  T.  A.  Buck, 
Sr. 

"Tell  me,  Emma.  Does  this  satisfy  you — the 
work  you're  doing,  I  mean?  Do  you  think  you're 
giving  the  best  you've  got?  " 

"Well,  of  course  I'd  like  to  go  to  France " 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT        225 

"I  didn't  ask  you  what  you'd  like." 

"Yes,  sir.  Very  good,  sir.  I  don't  know  what 
you  call  giving  the  best  one  has  got.  But  you 
know  I  work  from  eight  in  the  morning  until  mid 
night,  often  and  often.  Oh,  I  don't  say  that  some 
one  else  couldn't  do  my  work  just  as  well.  And  I 
don't  say,  either,  that  it  doesn't  include  a  lot  of 
dashing  up  and  down  Fifth  Avenue,  and  teaing  at 
the  Ritz,  and  meeting  magnificent  Missions,  and 
being  cooed  over  by  Lady  Millionaires.  But  if 
you'd  like  a  few  statistics  as  to  the  number  of 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  soldiers  we've  canteened 
since  last  June,  I'd  be  pleased  to  oblige."  She 
tugged  at  a  capacious  pocket  and  brought  forth  a 
smart  leather-bound  notebook. 

"Spare  me!  I've  had  all  the  statistics  I  can 
stand  for  one  day  at  the  office.  I  know  you're 
working  hard.  I  just  wondered  if  you  didn't 
realize " 

They  turned  into  their  own  street.  "Realize 
what?" 

"Nothing.     Nothing." 

Emma  sighed  a  mock  sigh  and  glanced  up  at  the 
windows  of  her  own  house.  "Oh,  well,  everybody's 
difficult  these  days,  T.  A.,  including  husbands. 
That  second  window  shade  is  crooked.  Isn't  it 
queer  how  maids  never  do.  .  .  .  I'll  tell  you 
what  I  can  realize,  though.  I  realize  that  we're 


226  HALF  PORTIONS 

going  to  have  dinner  at  home,  reg'lar  old-fashioned 
befo'-de-war.  And  I  can  bathe  before  dinner. 
There's  richness." 

But  when  she  appeared  at  dinner,  glowing, 
radiant,  her  hair  shiningly  re-coifed,  she  again 
wore  the  blue  uniform,  with  the  service  cap  atop 
her  head.  Buck  surveyed  her,  unsmiling.  She 
seated  herself  at  table  with  a  little  clinking  of 
buckles  and  buttons.  She  flung  her  motor  gloves 
on  a  near-by  chair,  ran  an  inquiring  finger  along 
belt  and  collar  with  a  little  gesture  that  was 
absurdly  feminine  in  its  imitation  of  mascu 
linity.  Buck  did  not  sit  down.  He  stood  at  the 
opposite  side  of  the  table,  one  hand  on  his 
chair,  the  knuckles  showing  white  where  he  gripped 
it. 

"It  seems  to  me,  Emma,  that  you  might  man 
age  to  wear  something  a  little  less  military  when 
you're  dining  at  home.  War  is  war,  but  I  don't 
see  why  you  should  make  me  feel  like  your 
orderly.  It's  like  being  married  to  a  police 
woman.  Surely  you  can  neglect  your  country  for 
the  length  of  time  it  takes  to  dine  with  your  hus 
band." 

It  was  the  bitterest  speech  he  had  made  to  her 
in  the  years  of  their  married  life.  She  flushed  a 
little.  "I  thought  you  knew  that  I  was  going  out 
again  immediately  after  dinner.  I  left  at  five 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT         227 

with  the  understanding  that  I'd  be  on  duty  again 
at  8.30." 

He  said  nothing.  He  stood  looking  down  at  his 
own  hand  that  gripped  the  chair  back  so  tightly. 
Emma  sat  back  and  surveyed  her  trim  and  tailored 
self  with  a  placidity  that  had  in  it,  perhaps,  a  dash 
of  malice.  His  last  speech  had  cut.  Then  she 
reached  forward,  helped  herself  to  an  olive,  and 
nibbled  it,  head  on  one  side. 

"D'you  know,  T.  A.,  what  I  think?  H'm?  I 
think  you're  jealous  of  your  wife's  uniform." 

She  had  touched  the  match  to  the  dynamite. 

He  looked  up.  At  the  blaze  in  his  eyes  she 
shrank  back  a  little.  His  face  was  white.  He 
was  breathing  quickly. 

"You're  right!  I  am.  I  am  jealous.  I'm 
jealous  of  every  buck  private  in  the  army!  I'm 
jealous  of  the  mule  drivers!  Of  the  veterinarians. 
Of  the  stokers  in  the  transports.  Men!"  He 
doubled  his  hand  into  a  fist.  His  fine  eyes  glowed. 
"Men!" 

And  suddenly  he  sat  down,  heavily,  and  covered 
his  eyes  with  his  hands. 

Emma  sat  staring  at  him  for  a  dull,  sickening 
moment.  Then  she  looked  down  at  herself, 
horror  in  her  eyes.  Then  up  again  at  him.  She 
got  up  and  came  over  to  him. 

"Why,      dear — dearest — I      didn't      know.     I 


228  HALF  PORTIONS 

thought  you  were  satisfied.  I  thought  you  were 
happy .  You — — ' ' 

"Honey,  the  only  man  who's  happy  is  the  man 
in  khaki.  The  rest  of  us  are  gritting  our  teeth 
and  pretending." 

She  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "But  what  do 
you  want — what  can  you  do  that " 

He  reached  back  over  his  shoulder  and  found 
her  hand.  He  straightened.  His  head  came  up. 
"They've  offered  me  a  job  in  Bordeaux.  It  isn't 
a  fancy  job.  It  has  to  do  with  merchandising. 
But  I  think  you  know  they're  having  a  devil  of  a 
time  with  all  the  millions  of  bales  of  goods.  They 
need  men  who  know  materials.  I  ought  to.  I've 
handled  cloth  and  clothes  enough.  I  know  values. 
It  would  mean  hard  work — manual  work  lots 
of  times.  No  pay.  And  happiness.  For  me." 
There  was  a  silence.  It  seemed  to  fill  the  room, 
that  silence.  It  filled  the  house.  It  roared  and 
thundered  about  Emma's  ears,  that  silence. 
When  finally  she  broke  it : 

"Blind!"  she  said.  "Blind!  Deaf!  Dumb! 
And  crazy."  She  laughed,  and  two  tears  sped 
down  her  cheeks  and  dropped  on  the  unblemished 
blue  serge  uniform.  "Oh,  T.  A.!  Where  have  I 
been?  How  you  must  have  despised  me.  Me,  in 
my  uniform.  In  my  uniform  that  was  costing  the 
Government  three  strapping  men.  My  uniform, 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT         229 

that  was  keeping  three  man-size  soldiers  out  of 
khaki.  You,  Jock,  and  Fisk.  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me,  dear !  Why  didn't  you  tell  me ! " 

"I've  tried.  I  couldn't.  You've  always  seen 
things  first.  I  couldn't  ask  you  to  go  back  to  the 
factory." 

"Factory!  Factory  nothing!  I'm  going  back 
on  the  road.  I'm  taking  Fisk's  Western  territory. 
I  know  the  Middle  West  better  than  Fisk  himself. 
I  ought  to.  I  covered  it  for  ten  years.  I'll  pay 
Gertie  Fisk's  salary  until  she's  able  to  come  back 
to  us  as  stenographer.  We've  never  had  one  so 
good.  Grace  can  give  the  office  a  few  hours  a 
week.  And  we  can  promote  O'Brien  to  manager 
while  I'm  on  the  road." 

Buck  was  staring  at  her,  dully.  "Grace?  Now 
wait  a  minute.  You're  travelling  too  fast  for  a 
mere  man."  His  hand  was  gripping  hers,  tight, 

tight. 

Their  dinner  was  cooling  on  the  table.  They 
ignored  it.  She  pulled  a  chair  around  to  his. 
They  sat  shoulder  to  shoulder,  elbows  on  the  cloth. 

"It  took  me  long  enough  to  wake  up,  didn't  it? 
I've  got  to  make  up  for  lost  time.  The  whole 
thing's  clear  in  my  mind.  Now  get  this:  Jock 
gets  a  commission.  Grace  and  the  babies  pack  up 
and  come  to  New  York,  and  live  right  here,  with 
me,  in  this  house.  Fisk  goes  to  war.  Gertie  gets 


230  HALF  PORTIONS 

well  and  comes  back  to  work  for  Featherlooms. 
Mr.  T.  A.  Buck  goes  to  Bordeaux.  Old  Emmer 
takes  off  her  uniform  and  begins  to  serve  her 
country — on  the  road." 

At  that  he  got  up  and  began  pacing  the  room. 
"I  can't  have  you  do  that,  dear.  Why,  you  left 
all  that  behind  when  you  married  me." 

"Yes,  but  our  marriage  certificate  didn't  carry 
a  war  guarantee." 

"Gad,  Emma,  you're  glorious!" 

"Glorious  nothing!  I'm  going  to  earn  the 
living  for  three  families  for  a  few  months,  until 
things  get  going.  And  there's  nothing  glorious 
about  that,  old  dear.  I  haven't  any  illusions 
about  what  taking  a  line  on  the  road  means  these 
days.  It  isn't  travelling.  It's  exploring.  You 
never  know  where  you're  going  to  land,  or  when, 
unless  you're  travelling  in  a  freight  train.  They're 
cock  o'  the  walk  now.  I  think  I'll  check  myself 
through  as  first-class  freight.  Or  send  my  pack 
ahead,  with  natives  on  foot,  like  an  African  ex 
plorer.  But  it'll  be  awfully  good  for  me  character. 
And  when  I'm  eating  that  criminal  corn  bread  they 
serve  on  dining  cars  on  a  train  that's  seven  hours 
late  into  Duluth  I'll  remember  when  I  had  my 
picture,  in  uniform,  in  the  Sunday  supplements, 
with  my  hand  on  the  steering  wheel  along  o*  the 
nobility  and  gentry." 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT         231 

"Listen,  dear,  I  can't  have  you " 

"Too  late.  Got  a  pencil?  Let's  send  fifty 
words  to  Jock  and  Grace.  They'll  wire  back 
4 No!'  but  another  fifty '11  fetch  'em.  After  all,  it 
takes  more  than  one  night  letter  to  explain  a  move 
that  is  going  to  change  eight  lives.  Now  let's  have 
dinner,  dear.  It'll  be  cold,  but  filling." 

Perhaps  in  the  whirlwind  ten  days  that  followed 
a  woman  of  less  energy,  less  determination,  less 
courage  and  magnificent  vitality  might  have  fal 
tered  and  failed  in  an  undertaking  of  such  magni 
tude.  But  Emma  was  alert  and  forceful  enough  to 
keep  just  one  jump  ahead  of  the  swift-moving 
times.  In  a  less  cataclysmic  age  the  changes  she 
wrought  within  a  period  of  two  weeks  would  have 
seemed  herculean.  But  in  this  time  of  stress  and 
change,  when  every  household  in  every  street  in 
every  town  in  all  the  country  was  feeling  the 
tremor  of  upheaval,  the  readjustment  of  this  little 
family  and  business  group  was  so  unremarkable  as 
to  pass  unnoticed.  Even  the  members  of  the 
group  itself,  seeing  themselves  scattered  to  camp, 
to  France,  to  New  York,  to  the  Middle  West, 
shuffled  like  pawns  that  the  Great  Game  might  the 
better  be  won,  felt  strangely  unconcerned  and  un 
ruffled. 

It  was  little  more  than  two  weeks  after  the 
night  of  Emma's  awakening  that  she  was  talking 


HALF  PORTIONS 

fast  to  keep  from  crying  hard,  as  she  stuffed  plain, 
practical  blue  serge  garments  (unmilitary)  into  a 
bellows  suitcase  ("Can't  count  on  trunks  these 
days,"  she  had  said.  "I'm  not  taking  any  chances 
on  a  clean  shirtwaist").  Buck,  standing  in  the 
doorway,  tried  hard  to  keep  his  gaze  from  the 
contemplation  of  his  khaki-clad  self  reflected  in 
the  long  mirror.  At  intervals  he  said:  "Can't  I 
help,  dear?"  Or,  "Talk  about  the  early  Pilgrim 
mothers,  and  the  Revolutionary  mothers,  and  the 
Civil  War  mothers!  I'd  like  to  know  what  they 
had  on  you,  Emma." 

And  from  Emma:  "Yeh,  ain't  I  noble!" 
Then,  after  a  little  pause :  "  This  house  is  going  to 
be  so  full  of  wimmin  folks  it'll  look  like  a  Home  for 
Decayed  Gentlewomen.  Buddy  McChesney,  aged 
six  months,  is  going  to  be  the  only  male  protector 
around  the  place.  We'll  make  him  captain  of  the 
home  guard." 

"Gertie  was  in  to-day.  She  says  I'm  a  shrimp 
in  my  uniform  compared  to  Charley.  You  know 
she  always  was  the  nerviest  little  stenographer  we 
ever  had  about  the  place,  but  she  knows  more 
about  Featherlooms  than  any  woman  in  the  shop 
except  you.  She's  down  to  ninety-eight  pounds, 
poor  little  girl,  but  every  ounce  of  it's  pure  pluck, 
and  she  says  she'll  be  as  good  as  new  in  a  month  or 
two,  and  I  honestly  believe  she  will." 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT        233 

Emma  was  counting  a  neat  stack  of  folded 

handkerchiefs.  "Seventeen — eighteen When 

she  comes  back  we'll  have  to  pay  her  twice  the 
salary  she  got  when  she  left.  But,  then,  you  have 
to  pay  an  errand  boy  what  you  used  to  pay  a  ship 
ping  clerk,  and  a  stock  girl  demands  money  that 
an  operator  used  to  brag  about — nineteen " 

Buck  came  over  to  her  and  put  a  hand  on 
the  bright  hair  that  was  rumpled,  now,  from 
much  diving  into  bags  and  suitcases  and  clothes 
closets. 

"All  except  you,  Emma.  You'll  be  working 
without  a  salary — working  like  a  man — like  three 
men " 

"Working  for  three  men,  T.  A.  Three  fighting 
men.  I've  got  two  service  buttons  already,"  she 
glanced  down  at  her  blouse,  "and  Charley 
Fisk  said  I  had  the  right  to  wear  one  for  him. 
I'll  look  like  a  mosaic,  but  I'm  going  to  put  'em 
all  on." 

The  day  before  Emma's  departure  for  the  West 
Grace  arrived,  with  bags,  bundles,  and  babies.  A 
wan  and  tired  Grace,  but  proud,  too,  and  with  the 
spirit  of  the  times  in  her  eyes. 

"Jock!"  she  repeated,  in  answer  to  their  ques 
tions.  "My  dears,  he  doesn't  know  I'm  alive.  I 
visited  him  at  camp  the  day  before  I  left.  He 


234  HALF  PORTIONS 

thinks  he'll  be  transferred  East,  as  we  hoped. 
Wouldn't  that  be  glorious!  Well,  I  had  all  sorts 
of  intimate  and  vital  things  to  discuss  with  him, 
and  he  didn't  hear  what  I  was  saying.  He  wasn't 
even  listening.  He  couldn't  wait  until  I  had 
finished  a  sentence  so  that  he  could  cut  in  with 
something  about  his  work.  I  murmured  to  him 
in  the  moonlight  that  there  was  something  I  had 
long  meant  to  tell  him  and  he  answered  that  dam 
mit  he  forgot  to  report  that  rifle  that  exploded. 
And  when  I  said,  *  Dearest,  isn't  this  hotel  a  little 
like  the  place  we  spent  our  honeymoon  in — that 
porch,  and  all?'  he  said,  'See  this  feller  coming, 
Gracie?  The  big  guy  with  the  moustache.  Now 
mash  him,  Gracie.  He's  my  Captain.  I'm  going 
to  introduce  you.  He  was  a  senior  at  college  when 
I  was  a  fresh."' 

But  the  peace  and  the  pride  in  her  eyes  belied 
her  words. 

Emma's  trip,  already  delayed,  was  begun  ten 
days  before  her  husband's  date  for  sailing.  She 
bore  that,  too,  with  smiling  equanimity.  "When 
I  went  to  school,"  she  said,  "I  thought  I  hated  the 
Second  Peloponnesian  War  worse  than  any  war  I'd 
ever  heard  of.  But  I  hate  this  one  so  that  I  want 
everyone  to  get  into  it  one  hundred  per  cent., 
so  that  it'll  be  over  sooner;  and  because  we've 
won." 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT         235 

They  said  little  on  their  way  to  the  train.  She 
stood  on  the  rear  platform  just  before  the  train 
pulled  out.  They  had  tried  frantically  to  get  a 
lower  berth,  but  unsuccessfully.  "Don't  look  so 
tragic  about  it,"  she  laughed.  "  It's  like  old  times. 
These  last  three  years  have  been  a  dream — a 
delusion." 

He  looked  up  at  her,  as  she  stood  there  in  her 
blue  suit,  and  white  blouse,  and  trim  blue  hat  and 
crisp  veil.  "Gad,  Emma,  it's  uncanny.  I  believe 
you're  right.  You  look  exactly  as  you  did  when  I 
first  saw  you,  when  you  came  in  off  the  road  after 
father  died  and  I  had  just  taken  hold  of  the  busi 


ness." 


For  answer  she  hummed  a  few  plaintive  bars. 
He  grinned  as  he  recognized  "Silver.  Threads 
Among  the  Gold."  The  train  moved  away, 
gathered  speed.  He  followed  it.  They  were  not 
smiling  now.  She  was  leaning  over  the  railing,  as 
though  to  be  as  near  to  him  as  the  fast-moving 
train  would  allow.  He  was  walking  swiftly  along 
with  the  train,  as  though  hypnotized.  Their  eyes 
held.  The  brave  figure  in  blue  on  the  train  plat 
form.  The  brave  figure  in  khaki  outside.  The 
blue  suddenly  swam  in  a  haze  before  his  eyes;  the 
khaki  a  mist  before  hers.  The  crisp  little  veil  was 
a  limp  little  rag  when  finally  she  went  in  to  search 
for  Upper  Eleven. 


236  HALF  PORTIONS 

The  white-coated  figure  that  had  passed  up  and 
down  the  aisle  unnoticed  and  unnoticing  as  she  sat 
hidden  behind  the  kindly  folds  of  her  newspaper 
suddenly  became  a  very  human  being  as  Emma 
regained  self-control,  decided  on  dinner  as  a  pan 
acea,  and  informed  the  white  coat  that  she  desired 
Upper  Eleven  made  up  early. 

The  White  Coat  had  said,  "  Yas'm,"  and  glanced 
up  at  her.  Whereupon  she  had  said : 

"Why,  William!" 

And  he,  "Well,  fo'  de  Ian'!  'F  'tain't  Mis' 
McChesney !  Well,  mah  sakes  alive,  Mis'  McChes- 
ney!  Ah  ain't  seen  yo'  since  yo'  married.  Ah 
done  heah  yo'  married  yo'  boss  an'  got  a  swell 
brownstone  house,  an'  ev'thing  gran' " 

"I've  got  everything,  William,  but  a  lower  berth 
to  Chicago.  They  swore  they  couldn't  give  me 
anything  but  an  upper." 

A  speculative  look  crept  into  William's  rolling 
eye.  Emma  recognized  it.  Her  hand  reached 
toward  her  bag.  Then  it  stopped.  She  smiled. 
"No.  No,  William.  Time  was.  But  not  these 
days.  Four  years  ago  I'd  have  slipped  you  fifty 
cents  right  now,  and  you'd  have  produced  a  lower 
berth  from  somewhere.  But  I'm  going  to  fool  you. 
My  boss  has  gone  to  war,  William,  and  so  has  my 
son.  And  I'm  going  to  take  that  fifty  cents  and 
buy  thrift  stamps  for  Miss  Emma  McChesney, 


ONE  HUNDRED  PER  CENT        237 

aged  three,  and  Mr.  Buddy  McChesney,  aged  six 
months.  And  I'll  dispose  my  old  bones  in  Upper 
Eleven." 

She  went  in  to  dinner. 

At  eight-thirty  a  soft  and  deferential  voice 
sounded  in  her  ear. 

"Ah  got  yo'  made  up,  Mis'  McChesney." 

"But  this  is  my " 

He  beckoned.  He  padded  down  the  aisle  with 
that  walk  which  is  a  peculiar  result  of  flat  feet 
and  twenty  years  of  swaying  car.  Emma  fol 
lowed.  He  stopped  before  Lower  Six  and  drew 
aside  the  curtain.  It  was  that  lower  which  can 
always  be  produced,  magically,  though  ticket 
sellers,  Pullman  agents,  porters,  and  train  conduc 
tors  swear  that  it  does  not  exist.  The  key  to  it  is 
silver,  but  to-night  Emma  McChesney  Buck  had 
unlocked  it  with  finer  metal.  Gold.  Pure  gold. 
For  William  drew  aside  the  curtain  with  a  gesture 
such  as  one  of  his  slave  ancestors  might  have  used 
before  a  queen  of  Egypt.  He  carefully  brushed  a 
cinder  from  the  sheet  with  one  gray -black  hand. 
Then  he  bowed  like  any  courtier. 

Emma  sank  down  on  the  edge  of  the  couch  with 
a  little  sigh  of  weariness.  Gratefulness  was  in  it, 
too.  She  looked  up  at  him — at  the  wrinkled, 
kindly,  ape-like  face,  and  he  looked  down  at 
her. 


238  HALF  PORTIONS 

"William,"  she  said,  "war  is  a  filthy,  evil,  vile 
thing,  but  it  bears  wonderful  white  flowers." 

"Yas'mi"  agreed  William,  genially,  and  smiled 
all  over  his  rubbery,  gray-black  countenance. 
"  Yas  'm  !  " 

And  who  shall  say  he  did  not  understand? 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL 

OLD  Ben  Westerveld  was  taking  it  easy. 
Every  muscle  taut,  every  nerve  tense, 
his  keen  eyes  vainly  straining  to  pierce 
the  blackness  of  the  stuffy  room — there  lay  Ben 
Westerveld  in  bed,  taking  it  easy.  And  it  was 
hard.  Hard.  He  wanted  to  get  up.  He  wanted 
so  intensely  to  get  up  that  the  mere  effort  of  lying 
there  made  him  ache  all  over.  His  toes  were 
curled  with  the  effort.  His  fingers  were  clenched 
with  it.  His  breath  came  short,  and  his  thighs 
felt  cramped.  Nerves.  But  old  Ben  Westerveld 
didn't  know  that.  What  should  a  retired  and  well- 
to-do  farmer  of  fifty -eight  know  of  nerves,  espe 
cially  when  he  has  moved  to  the  city  and  is  taking 
it  easy? 

If  only  he  knew  what  time  it  was.  Here  in  Chi 
cago  you  couldn't  tell  whether  it  was  four  o'clock 
•or  seven  unless  you  looked  at  your  watch.  To  do 
that  it  was  necessary  to  turn  on  the  light.  And  to 
turn  on  the  light  meant  that  he  would  turn  on, 
too,  a  flood  of  querulous  protest  from  his  wife,  Bella, 
who  lay  asleep  beside  him. 

When  for  forty-five  years  of  your  life  you  have 

239 


240  HALF  PORTIONS 

risen  at  four-thirty  daily,  it  IB  difficult  to  learn  to 
loll.  To  do  it  successfully  you  must  be  a  natural- 
born  loller  to  begin  with,  and  revert.  Bella  West- 
erveld  was  and  had.  So  there  she  lay,  asleep. 
Old  Ben  wasn't  and  hadn't.  So  there  he  lay, 
terribly  wide-awake,  wondering  what  made  his 
heart  thump  so  fast  when  he  was  lying  so  still.  If 
it  had  been  light,  you  could  have  seen  the  lines  of 
strained  resignation  in  the  sagging  muscles  of  his 
patient  face. 

They  had  lived  in  the  city  for  almost  a  year,  but 
it  was  the  same  every  morning.  He  would  open 
his  eyes,  start  up  with  one  hand  already  reaching 
for  the  limp,  drab,  work-worn  garments  that  used 
to  drape  the  chair  by  his  bed.  Then  he  would 
remember  and  sink  back  while  a  great  wave  of 
depression  swept  over  him.  Nothing  to  get  up  for. 
Store  clothes  on  the  chair  by  the  bed.  He  was 
taking  it  easy. 

Back  home  on  the  farm  in  southern  Illinois  he 
had  known  the  hour  the  instant  his  eyes  opened. 
Here  the  flat  next  door  was  so  close  that  the  bed 
room  was  in  twilight  even  at  midday.  On  the 
farm  he  could  tell  by  the  feeling — an  intangible 
thing,  but  infallible.  He  could  gauge  the  very 
quality  of  the  blackness  that  comes  just  before 
dawn.  The  crowing  of  the  cocks,  the  stamping  of 
the  cattle,  the  twittering  of  the  birds  in  the  old 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  241 

elm  whose  branches  were  etched  eerily  against  his 
window  in  the  ghostly  light — these  things  he  had 
never  needed.  He  had  known.  But  here,  in  the 
unsylvan  section  of  Chicago  which  bears  the  bosky 
name  of  Englewood,  the  very  darkness  had  a 
strange  quality.  A  hundred  unfamiliar  noises 
misled  him.  There  were  no  cocks,  no  cattle,  no 
elm.  Above  all,  there  was  no  instinctive  feeling. 
Once,  when  they  fi»et  came  to  the  city,  he  had 
risen  at  twelve-thirty,  thinking  it  was  morning, 
and  had  gone  clumping  about  the  flat  waking  up 
everyone  and  loosing  from  his  wife's  lips  a  stream 
of  acid  vituperation  that  seared  even  his  case-hard 
ened  sensibilities.  The  people  sleeping  in  the 
bedroom  of  the  flat  next  door  must  have  heard 
her. 

"  You  big  rube !  Getting  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  and  stomping  around  like  cattle.  You'd  bet 
ter  build  a  shed  in  the  backyard  and  sleep  there 
if  you're  so  dumb  you  can't  tell  night  from  day." 

Even  after  thirty -three  years  of  marriage  he  had 
never  ceased  to  be  appalled  at  the  coarseness  of  her 
mind  and  speech — she  who  had  seemed  so  mild  and 
fragile  and  exquisite  when  he  married  her.  He  had 
crept  back  to  bed,  shamefacedly.  He  could  hear 
the  couple  in  the  bedroom  of  the  flat  just  across  the 
little  court  grumbling  and  then  laughing  a  little, 
grudgingly,  and  yet  with  appreciation.  That  bed- 


HALF  PORTIONS 

room,  too,  had  still  the  power  to  appall  him.  Its 
nearness,  its  forced  intimacy,  were  daily  shocks  to 
him  whose  most  immediate  neighbour,  back  on  the 
farm,  had  been  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  The 
sound  of  a  shoe  dropped  on  the  hardwood  floor,  the 
rush  of  water  in  the  bathroom,  the  murmur  of 
nocturnal  confidences,  the  fretful  cry  of  a  child  in 
the  night,  all  startled  and  distressed  him  whose 
ear  had  found  music  in  the  roar  of  the  thresher  and 
had  been  soothed  by  the  rattle  of  the  tractor  and 
the  hoarse  hoot  of  the  steamboat  whistle  at  the 
landing.  His  farm's  edge  had  been  marked  by  the 
Mississippi  rolling  grandly  by. 

Since  they  had  moved  into  town  he  had  found 
only  one  city  sound  that  he  really  welcomed:  the 
rattle  and  clink  that  marked  the  milkman's 
matutinal  visit.  The  milkman  came  at  six,  and  he 
was  the  good  fairy  who  released  Ben  Westerveld 
from  durance  vile — or  had  been  until  the  winter 
months  made  his  coming  later  and  later,  so  that  he 
became  worse  than  useless  as  a  timepiece.  But 
now  it  was  late  March,  and  mild.  The  milkman's 
coming  would  soon  again  mark  old  Ben's  rising 
hour.  Before  he  had  begun  to  take  it  easy  six 
o'clock  had  seen  the  entire  mechanism  of  his  busy 
little  world  humming  smoothly  and  sweetly,  the 
whole  set  in  motion  by  his  own  big  work-calloused 
hands.  Those  hands  puzzled  him  now.  He  often 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  243 

looked  at  them  curiously  and  in  a  detached  sort  of 
way  as  if  they  belonged  to  someone  else.  So  white 
they  were,  and  smooth  and  soft,  with  long,  pliant 
nails  that  never  broke  off  from  rough  work  as  they 
used  to.  Of  late  there  were  little  splotches  of 
brown  on  the  backs  of  his  hands  and  around  the 
thumbs. 

"Guess  it's  my  liver,"  he  decided,  rubbing  the 
spots  thoughtfully.  "She  gets  kind  of  sluggish 
from  me  not  doing  anything.  Maybe  a  little 
spring  tonic  wouldn't  go  bad.  Tone  me  up." 

He  got  a  bottle  of  reddish-brown  mixture  from 
the  druggist  on  Halsted  Street  near  Sixty-third. 
A  genial  gentleman,  the  druggist,  white-coated  and 
dapper,  stepping  affably  about  the  fragrant-smell 
ing  store.  The  reddish-brown  mixture  had  toned 
old  Ben  up  surprisingly — while  it  lasted.  He  had 
two  bottles  of  it.  But  on  discontinuing  it  he 
slumped  back  into  his  old  apathy. 

Ben  Westerveld,  in  his  store  clothes,  his  clean 
blue  shirt,  his  incongruous  hat,  ambling  aimlessly 
about  Chicago's  teeming,  gritty  streets,  was  a 
tragedy.  Those  big,  capable  hands,  now  dangling 
so  limply  from  inert  wrists,  had  wrested  a  living 
from  the  soil;  those  strangely  unfaded  blue  eyes 
had  the  keenness  of  vision  which  comes  from  scan 
ning  great  stretches  of  earth  and  sky;  the  stocky, 
square-shouldered  body  suggested  power  unutilized. 


244  HALF  PORTIONS 

All  these  spelled  tragedy.  Worse  than  tragedy — • 
waste. 

For  almost  half  a  century  this  man  had  com 
bated  the  elements,  head  set,  eyes  wary,  shoulders 
squared.  He  had  fought  wind  and  sun,  rain  and 
drought,  scourge  and  flood.  He  had  risen  before 
dawn  and  slept  before  sunset.  In  the  process  he 
had  taken  on  something  of  the  colour  and  the 
rugged  immutability  of  the  fields  and  hills  and 
trees  among  which  he  toiled.  Something  of  their 
dignity,  too,  though  your  town  dweller  might  fail 
to  see  it  beneath  the  drab  exterior.  He  had  about 
him  none  of  the  high  lights  and  sharp  points  of  the 
city  man.  He  seemed  to  blend  in  with  the  back 
ground  of  nature  so  as  to  be  almost  indistinguish 
able  from  it  as  were  the  furred  and  feathered 
creatures.  This  farmer  differed  from  the  city  man 
as  a  hillock  differs  from  an  artificial  golf  bunker, 
though  form  and  substance  are  the  same. 

Ben  Westerveld  didn't  know  he  was  a  tragedy. 
Your  farmer  is  not  given  to  introspection.  For 
that  matter  any  one  knows  that  a  farmer  in  town 
is  a  comedy.  Vaudeville,  burlesque,  the  Sunday 
supplement,  the  comic  papers,  have  marked  him  a 
fair  target  for  ridicule.  Perhaps  even  you  should 
know  him  in  his  overalled,  stubble-bearded  days, 
with  the  rich  black  loam  of  the  Mississippi  bottom 
lands  clinging  to  his  boots. 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  245 

At  twenty-five,  given  a  tasselled  cap,  doublet 
and  hose,  and  a  long,  slim  pipe,  Ben  Westerveld 
would  have  been  the  prototype  of  one  of  those  rol 
licking,  lusty  young  mynheers  that  laugh  out  at  you 
from  a  Frans  Hals  canvas.  A  roguish  fellow  with 
a  merry  eye;  red-cheeked,  vigorous.  A  serious 
mouth,  though,  and  great  sweetness  of  expression. 
As  he  grew  older  the  seriousness  crept  up  and  up 
and  almost  entirely  obliterated  the  roguishness. 
By  the  time  the  life  of  ease  claimed  him  even  the 
ghost  of  that  ruddy  wight  of  boyhood  had  van 
ished. 

The  Westerveld  ancestry  was  as  Dutch  as  the 
name.  It  had  been  hundreds  of  years  since  the 
first  Westerveld  came  to  America,  and  they  had 
married  and  intermarried  until  the  original  Hol 
land  strain  had  almost  entirely  disappeared. 
They  had  drifted  to  southern  Illinois  by  one  of 
those  slow  processes  of  migration  and  had  settled 
in  Calhoun  County,  then  almost  a  wilderness,  but 
magnificent  with  its  rolling  hills,  majestic  rivers, 
and  gold-and-purple  distances.  But  to  the  prac 
tical  Westerveld  mind  hills  and  rivers  and  purple 
haze  existed  only  in  their  relation  to  crops  and 
weather.  Ben,  though,  had  a  way  of  turning  his 
face  up  to  the  sky  sometimes,  and  it  was  not  to 
scan  the  heavens  for  clouds.  You  saw  him  leaning 


246  HALF  PORTIONS 

on  the  plow  handle  to  watch  the  whirring  flight  of 
a  partridge  across  the  meadow.  He  liked  farming. 
Even  the  drudgery  of  it  never  made  him  grumble. 
He  was  a  natural  farmer  as  men  are  natural 
mechanics  or  musicians  or  salesmen.  Things 
grew  for  him.  He  seemed  instinctively  to  know 
facts  about  the  kinship  of  soil  and  seed  that  other 
men  had  to  learn  from  books  or  experience.  It 
grew  to  be  a  saying  in  that  section  "Ben  Wester- 
veld  could  grow  a  crop  on  rock." 

At  picnics  and  neighbourhood  frolics  Ben  could 
throw  farther  and  run  faster  and  pull  harder  than 
any  of  the  farmer  boys  who  took  part  in  the  rough 
games.  And  he  could  pick  up  a  girl  with  one  hand 
and  hold  her  at  arm's  length  while  she  shrieked 
with  pretended  fear  and  real  ecstasy.  The  girls 
all  liked  Ben.  There  was  that  about  his  primitive 
strength  which  appealed  to  the  untamed  in  them 
as  his  gentleness  appealed  to  their  softer  side.  He 
liked  the  girls,  too,  and  could  have  had  his  pick  of 
them.  He  teased  them  all,  took  them  buggy  rid 
ing,  beaued  them  about  to  neighbourhood  parties. 
But  by  the  time  he  was  twenty-five  the  thing  had 
narrowed  down  to  the  Byers  girl  on  the  farm  ad 
joining  Westerveld's.  There  was  what  the  neigh 
bours  called  an  understanding,  though  perhaps  he 
had  never  actually  asked  the  Byers  girl  to  marry 
him.  You  saw  him  going  down  the  road  toward 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  247 

the  Byers  place  four  nights  out  of  the  seven.  He 
had  a  quick,  light  step  at  variance  with  his  sturdy 
build,  and  very  different  from  the  heavy,  slouching 
gait  of  the  work-weary  farmer.  He  had  a  habit 
ef  carrying  in  his  hand  a  little  twig  or  switch  cut 
from  a  tree.  This  he  would  twirl  blithely  as  he 
walked  along.  The  switch  and  the  twirl  rep 
resented  just  so  much  energy  and  animal  spirits. 
He  never  so  much  as  flicked  a  dandelion  head  with 
it. 

An  inarticulate  sort  of  thing,  that  courtship. 

"Hello,  Emma." 

"How  do,  Ben." 

"Thought  you  might  like  to  walk  a  piece  down 
the  road.  They  got  a  calf  at  Aug  Tietjens  with 
five  legs." 

"I  heard.  I'd  just  as  lief  walk  a  little  piece. 
I'm  kind  of  beat,  though.  We've  got  the  threshers 
day  after  to-morrow.  We've  been  cooking  up." 

Beneath  Ben's  bonhomie  and  roguishness  there 
was  much  shyness.  The  two  would  plod  along  the 
road  together  in  a  sort  of  blissful  agony  of  em 
barrassment.  The  neighbours  were  right  in  their 
surmise  that  there  was  no  definite  understanding 
between  them.  ''But  the  thing  was  settled  in  the 
minds  of  both.  Once  Ben  had  said:  "Pop  says 
I  can  have  the  north  eighty  on  easy  payments 
if— when " 


248  HALF  PORTIONS 

Emma  Byers  had  flushed  up  brightly,  but  had 
answered  equably:  "That's  a  fine  piece.  Your 
pop  is  an  awful  good  man." 

Beneath  the  stolid  exteriors  of  these  two  there 
was  much  that  was  fine  and  forceful.  Emma 
Byers's  thoughtful  forehead  and  intelligent  eyes 
would  have  revealed  that  in  her.  Her  mother  was 
dead.  She  kept  house  for  her  father  and  brother. 
She  was  known  as  "that  smart  Byers  girl."  Her 
butter  and  eggs  and  garden  stuff  brought  higher 
prices  at  Commercial,  twelve  miles  away,  than 
did  any  in  the  district.  She  was  not  a  pretty  girl, 
according  to  the  local  standards,  but  there  was 
about  her,  even  at  twenty-two,  a  clear-headedness 
and  a  restful  serenity  that  promised  well  for  Ben 
Westerveld's  future  happiness. 

But  Ben  Westerveld's  future  was  not  to  lie  in 
Emma  Byers's  capable  hands.  He  knew  that  as 
soon  as  he  saw  Bella  Huckins.  Bella  Huckins  was 
the  daughter  of  old  Red  Front  Huckins,  who  ran 
the  saloon  of  that  cheerful  name  in  Commercial. 
Bella  had  elected  to  teach  school,  not  from  any 
bent  toward  learning,  but  because  teaching  ap 
pealed  to  her  as  being  a  rather  elegant  occupation. 
The  Huckins  family  was  not  elegant.  In  that  day 
a  year  or  two  of  teaching  in  a  country  school  took 
the  place  of  the  present-day  normal-school  di 
ploma.  Bella  had  an  eye  on  St.  Louis,  forty  miles 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  249 

from  the  town  of  Commercial.  So  she  used  the 
country  school  as  a  step  toward  her  ultimate  goal, 
though  she  hated  the  country  and  dreaded  her 
apprenticeship . 

"I'll  get  a  beau,"  she  said,  "that'll  take  me 
driving  and  around.  And  Saturdays  and  Sundays 
I  can  come  to  town." 

The  first  time  Ben  Westerveld  saw  her  she  was 
coming  down  the  road  toward  him  in  her  tight- 
fitting  black  alpaca  dress.  The  sunset  was  behind 
her.  Her  hair  was  very  golden.  In  a  day  of  tiny 
waists  hers  could  have  been  spanned  by  Ben 
Westerveld's  two  hands.  He  discovered  that 
later.  Just  now  he  thought  he  had  never  seen 
anything  so  fairylike  and  dainty,  though  he  did  not 
put  it  that  way.  Ben  was  not  glib  of  thought  or 
speech. 

He  knew  at  once  that  this  was  the  new  school 
teacher.  He  had  heard  of  her  coming,  though  at 
the  time  the  conversation  had  interested  him  not 
at  all.  Bella  knew  who  he  was,  too.  She  had 
learned  the  name  and  history  of  every  eligible 
young  man  in  the  district  two  days  after  her 
arrival.  That  was  due  partly  to  her  own  bold 
curiosity  and  partly  to  the  fact  that  she  was  board 
ing  with  the  Widow  Becker,  the  most  notorious 
gossip  in  the  county.  In  Bella's  mental  list  of  the 


250  HALF  PORTIONS 

neighbourhood  swains  Ben  Westerveld  already  oc 
cupied  a  two-star  position,  top  of  column. 

He  felt  his  face  redden  as  they  approached  each 
other.  To  hide  his  embarrassment  he  swung  his 
little  hickory  switch  gayly  and  called  to  his  dog 
Dunder  that  was  nosing  about  by  the  roadside. 
Dunder  bounded  forward,  spied  the  newcomer,  and 
leaped  toward  her  playfully  and  with  natural 
canine  curiosity. 

Bella  screamed.  She  screamed  and  ran  to  Ben 
and  clung  to  him,  clasping  her  hands  about  his  arm. 
Ben  lifted  the  hickory  switch  in  his  free  hand  and 
struck  Dunder  a  sharp  cut  with  it.  It  was  the 
first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  done  such  a  thing. 
If  he  had  had  a  sane  moment  from  that  time  until 
the  day  he  married  Bella  Huckins,  he  would  never 
have  forgotten  the  dumb  hurt  in  Dunder's  stricken 
eyes  and  shrinking,  quivering  body. 

Bella  screamed  again.  Still  clinging  to  him, 
Ben  was  saying:  "He  won't  hurt  you.  He  won't 
hurt  you,"  meanwhile  patting  her  shoulder  reas 
suringly.  He  looked  down  at  her  pale  face.  She 
was  so  slight,  so  childlike,  so  apparently  different 
from  the  sturdy  country  girls.  From — well,  from 
the  girls  he  knew.  Her  helplessness,  her  utter 
femininity,  appealed  to  all  that  was  masculine  in 
him.  Bella  the  experienced,  clinging  to  him,  felt 
herself  swept  from  head  to  foot  by  a  queer,  electric 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  251 

tingling  that  was  very  pleasant  but  that  still  had 
in  it  something  of  the  sensation  of  a  wholesale 
bumping  of  one's  crazy  bone.  If  she  had  been 
anything  but  a  stupid  little  flirt,  she  would  have 
realized  that  here  was  a  specimen  of  the  virile  male 
with  which  she  could  not  trifle.  She  glanced  up  at 
him  now,  smiling  faintly.  "My,  I  was  scared!" 
She  stepped  away  from  him  a  little — very  little. 

"Aw,  he  wouldn't  hurt  a  flea." 

But  Bella  looked  over  her  shoulders  fearfully  to 
where  Dunder  stood  by  the  roadside,  regarding 
Ben  with  a  look  of  uncertainty.  He  still  thought 
that  perhaps  this  was  a  new  game.  Not  a  game 
that  he  cared  for,  but  still  one  to  be  played  if  his 
master  fancied  it.  Ben  stooped,  picked  up  a  stone, 
and  threw  it  at  Dunder,  striking  him  in  the  flank. 
"Go  on  home!"  he  commanded,  sternly.  "Go 
home!"  He  started  toward  the  dog  with  a  well- 
feigned  gesture  of  menace.  Dunder,  with  a  low 
howl,  put  his  tail  between  his  legs  and  loped  off 
home,  a  disillusioned  dog. 

Bella  stood  looking  up  at  Ben.  Ben  looked 
down  at  her. 

"You're  the  new  teacher,  ain't  you?" 

"Yes.  I  guess  you  must  think  I'm  a  fool,  going 
on  like  a  baby  about  that  dog." 

"  Most  girls  would  be  scared  of  him  if  they  didn't 
know  he  wouldn't  hurt  nobody.  He's  pretty  big." 


HALF  PORTIONS 

He  paused  a  moment,  awkwardly.  "My  name's 
Ben  Westerveld." 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  Bella,  twiddling  her 
fingers  in  assumed  shyness. 

"Which  way  was  you  going?  There's  a  dog 
down  at  Tietjens  that's  enough  to  scare  anybody. 
He  looks  like  a  pony,  he's  so  big." 

"I  forgot  something  at  the  school  this  afternoon, 
and  I  was  walking  over  to  get  it."  Which  was  a 
lie.  "I  hope  it  won't  get  dark  before  I  get  there. 
You  were  going  the  other  way,  weren't  you?" 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  going  no  place  in  particular.  I'll 
be  pleased  to  keep  you  company  down  to  the  school 
and  back."  He  was  surprised  at  his  own  sudden 
masterfulness. 

They  set  off  together,  chatting  as  freely  as  if 
they  had  known  one  another  for  years.  Ben  had 
been  on  his  way  to  the  Byers  farm,  as  usual.  The 
Byers  farm  and  Emma  Byers  passed  out  of  his 
mind  as  completely  as  if  they  had  been  whisked 
away  on  a  magic  rug. 

Bella  Huckins  had  never  meant  to  marry  him. 
She  hated  farm  life.  She  was  contemptuous  of 
farmer  folk.  She  loathed  cooking  and  drudgery. 
The  Huckinses  lived  above  the  saloon  in  Com 
mercial  and  Mrs.  Huckins  was  always  boiling  ham 
and  tongue  and  cooking  pig's  feet  and  shredding 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  255 

cabbage  for  slaw,  all  these  edibles  being  destined 
for  the  free-lunch  counter  downstairs.  Bella  had 
early  made  up  her  mind  that  there  should  be  no 
boiling  and  stewing  and  frying  in  her  life.  When 
ever  she  could  find  an  excuse,  she  loitered  about  the 
saloon.  There  she  found  life  and  talk  and  colour. 
Old  Red  Front  Huckins  used  to  chase  her  away, 
but  she  always  turned  up  again,  somehow,  with  a 
dish  for  the  lunch  counter  or  with  an  armful  of 
clean  towels. 

Ben  Westerveld  never  said  clearly  to  himself: 
"I  want  to  marry  Bella."  He  never  dared  meet 
the  thought.  He  intended  honestly  to  marry 
Emma  Byers.  But  this  thing  was  too  strong  for 
him.  As  for  Bella,  she  laughed  at  him,  but  she 
was  scared,  too.  They  both  fought  the  thing,  she 
selfishly,  he  unselfishly,  for  the  Byers  girl,  with  her 
clear,  calm  eyes  and  her  dependable  ways,  was 
heavy  on  his  heart.  Ben's  appeal  for  Bella  was 
merely  that  of  the  magnetic  male.  She  never  once 
thought  of  his  finer  qualities.  Her  appeal  for  him 
was  that  of  the  frail  and  alluring  woman.  But  in 
the  end  they  married.  The  neighbourhood  was 
rocked  with  surprise.  In  fact,  the  only  unsur 
prised  party  to  the  transaction  was  the  dame  known 
as  Nature.  She  has  a  way  of  playing  these  tricks 
on  men  and  women  for  the  furtherance  of  her  own 
selfish  ends. 


254  HALF  PORTIONS 

Usually  in  a  courtship  it  is  the  male  who  as 
sumes  the  bright  colours  of  pretence  in  order  to 
attract  a  mate.  But  Ben  Westerveld  had  been 
too  honest  to  be  anything  but  himself.  He  was  so 
honest  and  fundamentally  truthful  that  he  refused 
at  first  to  allow  himself  to  believe  that  this  slovenly 
shrew  was  the  fragile  and  exquisite  creature  he  had 
married.  He  had  the  habit  of  personal  cleanliness, 
had  Ben,  in  a  day  when  tubbing  was  a  ceremony 
and  in  an  environment  that  made  bodily  nicety 
difficult.  He  discovered  that  Bella  almost  never 
washed  and  that  her  appearance  of  fragrant  im- 
maculateness,  when  dressed,  was  due  to  a  natural 
clearness  of  skin  and  eye,  and  to  the  way  her  blonde 
hair  swept  away  in  a  clean  line  from  her  forehead. 
For  the  rest,  she  was  a  slattern,  with  a  vocabulary 
of  invective  that  would  have  been  a  credit  to  any 
of  the  habitues  of  Old  Red  Front  Huckins's 
bar. 

They  had  three  children,  a  girl  and  two  boys. 
Ben  Westerveld  prospered  in  spite  of  his  wife. 
As  the  years  went  on  he  added  eighty  acres  here, 
eighty  acres  there,  until  his  land  swept  down  to  the 
very  banks  of  the  Mississippi.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  she  hindered  him  greatly,  but  he  was  too  ex 
pert  a  farmer  to  fail.  At  threshing  time  the  crew 
looked  forward  to  working  for  Ben,  the  farmer,  and 
dreaded  the  meals  prepared  by  Bella,  his  wife.  She 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  255 

was  notoriously  the  worst  cook  and  housekeeper  in 
the  county.  And  all  through  the  years,  in  trouble 
and  in  happiness,  her  plaint  was  the  same:  "If 
I'd  thought  I  was  going  to  stick  down  on  a  farm  all 
my  life,  slavin'  for  a  pack  of  men  folks  day  and 
night,  I'd  rather  have  died.  Might  as  well  be 
dead  as  rottin'  here." 

Her  school-teacher  English  had  early  reverted. 
Her  speech  was  as  slovenly  as  her  dress.  She 
grew  stout,  too,  and  unwieldy,  and  her  skin 
coarsened  from  lack  of  care  and  overeating.  And 
in  her  children's  ears  she  continually  dinned  a 
hatred  of  farm  life  and  farming.  "You  can  get 
away  from  it,"  she  counselled  her  daughter, 
Minnie.  "Don't  you  be  a  rube  like  your  pa,"  she 
cautioned  John,  the  older  boy.  And  they  profited 
by  her  advice.  Minnie  went  to  work  at  Com 
mercial  when  she  was  seventeen,  an  over-developed 
girl  with  an  inordinate  love  of  cheap  finery.  At 
twenty  she  married  an  artisan,  a  surly  fellow  with 
anarchistic  tendencies.  They  moved  from  town 
to  town.  He  never  stuck  long  at  one  job.  John, 
the  older  boy,  was  as  much  his  mother's  son  as 
Minnie  was  her  mother's  daughter.  Restless,  dis 
satisfied,  empty-headed,  he  was  the  despair  of 
his  father.  He  drove  the  farm  horses  as  if  they 
were  racers,  lashing  them  up  hill  and  down  dale. 
He  was  forever  lounging  off  to  the  village  or  wheed- 


256  HALF  PORTIONS 

ling  his  mother  for  money  to  take  him  to  Com 
mercial.  It  was  before  the  day  of  the  ubiquitous 
automobile.  Given  one  of  those  present  adjuncts 
to  farm  life,  John  would  have  ended  his  career 
much  earlier.  As  it  was,  they  found  him  lying 
by  the  roadside  at  dawn  one  morning  after  the 
horses  had  trotted  into  the  yard  with  the  wreck 
of  the  buggy  bumping  the  road  behind  them. 
He  had  stolen  the  horses  out  of  the  barn  after  the 
help  was  asleep,  had  led  them  stealthily  down  the 
road,  and  then  had  whirled  off  to  a  rendezvous  of 
his  own  in  town.  The  fall  from  the  buggy  might 
not  have  hurt  him,  but  he  evidently  had  been 
dragged  almost  a  mile  before  his  battered  body  be 
came  somehow  disentangled  from  the  splintered 
wood  and  the  reins. 

That  horror  might  have  served  to  bring  Ben 
Westerveld  and  his  wife  together,  but  it  did  not. 
It  only  increased  her  bitterness  and  her  hatred  of 
the  locality  and  the  life. 

"I  hope  you're  good  an*  satisfied  now,"  she 
repeated  in  endless  reproach.  "I  hope  you're 
good  an'  satisfied.  You  was  bound  you'd  make 
a  farmer  out  of  him,  an'  now  you  finished  the  job. 
You  better  try  your  hand  at  Dike  now  for  a 
change." 

Dike  was  young  Ben,  sixteen;  and  old  Ben  had 
no  need  to  try  his  hand  at  him.  Young  Ben  was  a 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  257 

born  fanner,  as  was  his  father.  He  had  come  hon 
estly  by  his  nickname.  In  face,  figure,  expression, 
and  manner  he  was  a  five-hundred-year  throwback 
to  his  Holland  ancestors.  Apple-cheeked,  stocky, 
merry  of  eye,  and  somewhat  phlegmatic.  When, 
at  school,  they  had  come  to  the  story  of  the  Dutch 
boy  who  saved  his  town  from  flood  by  thrusting  his 
hand  into  the  hole  in  the  dike  and  holding  it  there 
until  help  came,  the  class,  after  one  look  at  the 
accompanying  picture  in  the  reader,  dubbed 
young  Ben  "Dike"  Westerveld.  And  Dike  he 
remained. 

Between  Dike  and  his  father  there  was  a  strong 
but  unspoken  feeling.  The  boy  was  crop-wise,  as 
his  father  had  been  at  his  age.  On  Sundays  you 
might  see  the  two  walking  about  the  farm  looking 
at  the  pigs — great  black  fellows  worth  almost 
their  weight  in  silver;  eying  the  stock;  speculating 
on  the  winter  wheat  showing  dark  green  in  April 
with  rich  patches  that  were  almost  black.  Young 
Dike  smoked  a  solemn  and  judicious  pipe,  spat  ex 
pertly,  and  voiced  the  opinion  that  the  winter 
wheat  was  a  fine  prospect.  Ben  Westerveld, 
listening  tolerantly  to  the  boy's  opinions,  felt  a 
great  surge  of  joy  that  he  did  not  show.  Here,  at 
last,  was  compensation  for  all  the  misery  and 
sordidness  and  bitter  disappointment  of  his  mar 
ried  life. 


258  HALF  PORTIONS 

That  married  life  had  endured  now  for  more  than 
thirty  years.  Ben  Westerveld  still  walked  with  a 
light,  quick  step — for  his  years.  The  stocky, 
broad-shouldered  figure  was  a  little  shrunken. 
He  was  as  neat  and  clean  at  fifty-five  as  he  had 
been  at  twenty-five — a  habit  that  requires  much 
personal  courage  on  a  farm  and  that  is  fraught  with 
difficulties.  The  community  knew  and  respected 
him.  He  was  a  man  of  standing.  When  he  drove 
into  town  on  a  bright  winter  morning  and  entered 
the  First  National  Bank  in  his  big  sheepskin  coat 
and  his  shaggy  cap  and  his  great  boots,  even  Shum- 
way,  the  cashier,  would  look  up  from  his  desk  to  say : 
"  Hello,  Westerveld !  Hello !  Well,  how  goes  it? '» 

WTien  Shumway  greeted  a  farmer  in  that  way 
you  knew  that  there  were  no  unpaid  notes  to  his 
discredit. 

All  about  Ben  Westerveld  stretched  the  fruit  of 
his  toil;  the  work  of  his  hands.  Orchards,  fields, 
cattle,  barns,  silos.  All  these  things  were  de 
pendent  on  him  for  their  future  well-being — on  him 
and  on  Dike  after  him.  His  days  were  full  and 
running  over.  Much  of  the  work  was  drudgery; 
most  of  it  was  back-breaking  and  laborious. 
But  it  was  his  place.  It  was  his  reason  for  being. 
And  he  felt  that  the  reason  was  good,  though  he 
never  put  that  thought  into  words,  mental  or 
spoken.  He  only  knew  that  he  was  part  of  the 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL 

great  scheme  of  things  and  that  he  was  functioning 
ably.  If  he  had  expressed  himself  at  all,  he  might 
have  said: 

"Well,  I  got  my  work  cut  out  for  me,  an'  I  do  it 
an'  do  it  right." 

There  was  a  tractor  now,  of  course;  a  phono 
graph  with  expensive  records,  so  that  Caruso  and 
McCormack  and  Elman  were  household  words;  a 
sturdy,  middle-class  automobile,  in  which  Bella 
lolled  red-faced  in  a  lacy  and  beribboned  boudoir 
cap  when  they  drove  into  town.  On  a  Saturday 
afternoon  you  saw  more  boudoir  caps  skimming  up 
and  down  the  main  street  in  Commercial  than  you 
might  see  in  a  century  of  French  farces. 

As  Ben  Westerveld  had  prospered  his  shrewish 
wife  had  reaped  her  benefits.  Ben  was  not  the 
selfish  type  of  farmer  who  insists  on  twentieth- 
century  farm  implements  and  medieval  household 
equipment.  He  had  added  a  bedroom  here,  a 
cool  summer  kitchen  there,  an  ice  house,  a  com 
modious  porch,  a  washing  machine,  even  a  crude 
bathroom.  But  Bella  remained  unplacated.  Her 
face  was  set  toward  the  city.  And  slowly,  surely, 
the  effect  of  thirty-odd  years  of  nagging  was  begin 
ning  to  tell  on  Ben  Westerveld.  He  was  the  finer 
metal,  but  she  was  the  heavier,  the  coarser.  She 
beat  him  and  molded  him  as  iron  beats  upon  gold. 

Minnie  was  living  in  Chicago  now — a  good- 


260  HALF  PORTIONS 

natured  creature,  but  slack,  like  her  mother.  Her 
surly  husband  was  still  talking  of  his  rights  and 
crying  down  with  the  rich.  They  had  two  chil 
dren.  Minnie  wrote  of  them,  and  of  the  delights 
•of  city  life.  Movies  every  night.  Halsted  Street 
just  around  the  corner.  The  big  stores.  State 
Street.  The  L  took  you  downtown  in  no  time. 
Something  going  on  all  the  while.  Bella  Wester- 
veld,  after  one  of  those  letters,  was  more  than  a 
chronic  shrew;  she  became  a  terrible  termagant. 

When  Ben  Westerveld  decided  to  concentrate  on 
hogs  and  wheat  he  didn't  dream  that  a  world 
would  be  clamouring  for  hogs  and  wheat  for  four 
long  years.  When  the  time  came  he  had  them, 
and  sold  them  fabulously.  But  wheat  and  hogs 
and  markets  became  negligible  things  on  the  day 
that  Dike  with  seven  other  farm  boys  from  the  dis 
trict  left  for  the  nearest  training  camp  that  was  to 
fit  them  for  France  and  war. 

Bella  made  the  real  fuss,  wailing  and  mouthing 
and  going  into  hysterics.  Old  Ben  took  it  like  a 
stoic.  He  drove  the  boy  to  town  that  day.  When 
the  train  pulled  out,  you  might  have  seen,  if  you 
had  looked  close,  how  the  veins  and  cords  swelled 
in  the  lean  brown  neck  above  the  clean  blue  shirt 
But  that  was  all.  As  the  weeks  went  on  the  quick, 
light  step  began  to  lag  a  little. 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  261 

He  had  lost  more  than  a  son:  his  right-hand 
helper  was  gone.  There  were  no  farm  helpers  to 
be  had.  Old  Ben  couldn't  do  it  all.  A  touch  of 
rheumatism  that  winter  half  crippled  him  for  eight 
weeks.  Bella's  voice  seemed  never  to  stop  its 
plaint. 

"There  ain't  no  sense  in  you  trying  to  make  out 
alone.  Next  thing  you'll  die  on  me,  and  then  I'll 
have  the  whole  shebang  on  my  hands."  At  that 
he  eyed  her  dumbly  from  his  chair  by  the  stove. 
His  resistance  was  wearing  down.  He  knew  it. 
He  wasn't  dying.  He  knew  that,  too.  But  some 
thing  in  him  was.  Something  that  had  resisted 
her  all  these  years.  Something  that  had  made  him 
master  and  superior  in  spite  of  everything. 

In  those  days  of  illness,  as  he  sat  by  the  stove, 
the  memory  of  Emma  Byers  came  to  him  often. 
She  had  left  that  district  twenty-eight  years  ago, 
and  had  married,  and  lived  in  Chicago  somewhere, 
he  had  heard,  and  was  prosperous.  He  wasted  no 
time  in  idle  regrets.  He  had  been  a  fool,  and  he 
*>aid  the  price  of  fools.  Bella,  slamming  noisily 
about  the  room,  never  suspected  the  presence  in 
the  untidy  place  of  a  third  person — a  sturdy  girl  of 
twenty-two  or  three,  very  wholesome  to  look  at, 
and  with  honest,  intelligent  eyes  and  a  serene 
brow. 


262  HALF  PORTIONS 

"It'll  get  worse  an'  worse  all  the  time,"  Bella's 
whine  went  on.  "Everybody  says  the  war'll  last 
prob'ly  for  years  an'  years.  You  can't  make  out 
alone.  Everything's  goin'  to  rack  and  ruin.  You 
could  rent  out  the  farm  for  a  year,  on  trial.  The 
Burdickers'd  take  it  and  glad.  They  got  those 
three  strappin'  louts  that's  all  flat-footed  or  slab- 
sided  or  cross-eyed  or  somethin',  and  no  good  for 
the  army.  Let  them  run  it  on  shares.  Maybe 
they'll  even  buy,  if  things  turn  out.  Maybe  Dike'll 
never  come  b " 

But  at  the  look  on  his  face  then,  and  at  the  low 
growl  of  unaccustomed  rage  that  broke  from  him, 
even  she  ceased  her  clatter. 

They  moved  to  Chicago  in  the  early  spring. 
The  look  that  had  been  on  Ben  Westerveld5s  face 
when  he  drove  Dike  to  the  train  that  carried  him 
to  camp  was  stamped  there  again — indelibly  this 
time,  it  seemed.  Calhoun  County,  in  the  spring, 
has  much  the  beauty  of  California.  There  is  a  pe 
culiar  golden  light  about  it,  and  the  hills  are  a 
purplish  haze.  Ben  Westerveld,  walking  down 
his  path  to  the  gate,  was  more  poignantly  dramatic 
than  any  figure  in  a  rural  play.  He  did  not  turn 
to  look  back,  though,  as  they  do  in  a  play.  He 
dared  not. 

They  rented  a  flat  in  Englewood,  Chicago,  a 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  263 

block  from  Minnie's.  Bella  was  almost  amiable 
these  days.  She  took  to  city  life  as  though  the 
past  thirty  years  had  never  been.  White  kid 
shoes,  delicatessen  stores,  the  movies,  the  haggling 
with  peddlers,  the  crowds,  the  crashing  noise,  the 
cramped,  unnatural  mode  of  living  necessitated  by 
a  four-room  flat — all  these  urban  adjuncts  seemed 
as  natural  to  her  as  though  she  had  been  bred  in 
the  midst  of  them. 

She  and  Minnie  used  to  spend  whole  days  in 
useless  shopping.  Theirs  was  a  respectable  neigh 
bourhood  of  well-paid  artisans,  bookkeepers,  and 
small  shopkeepers.  The  women  did  their  own 
housework  in  drab  garments  and  soiled  boudoir 
caps  that  hid  a  multitude  of  unkempt  heads. 
They  seemed  to  find  a  deal  of  time  for  amiable, 
empty  gabbling.  Any  time  from  seven  to  four 
you  might  see  a  pair  of  boudoir  caps  leaning  from 
opposite  bedroom  windows,  conversing  across  back 
porches,  pausing  in  the  task  of  sweeping  front  steps, 
standing  at  a  street  corner,  laden  with  grocery 
bundles.  Minnie  wasted  hours  in  what  she  called 
"running  over  to  ma's  for  a  minute."  The  two 
quarrelled  a  great  deal,  being  so  nearly  of  a  nature. 
But  the  very  qualities  that  combated  each  other 
seemed,  by  some  strange  chemical  process,  to 
bring  them  together  as  well. 

"I'm  going  downtown   to-day   to   do   a   little 


264  HALF  PORTIONS 

shopping,"  Minnie  would  say.  "Do  you  want  to 
come  along,  ma?" 

"What  you  got  to  get?" 

"Oh,  I  thought  I'd  look  at  a  couple  of  little 
dresses  for  Pear  lie." 

"When  I  was  your  age  I  made  every  stitch  you 
wore." 

"  Yeh,  I  bet  they  looked  like  it,  too.  This  ain't 
the  farm.  I  got  all  I  can  do  to  tend  to  the  house, 
without  sewing." 

"I  did  it.  I  did  the  housework  and  the  sewin* 
and  cookin',  an'  besides — 

"A  swell  lot  of  housekeepin'  you  did.  You 
don't  need  to  tell  me." 

The  bickering  grew  to  a  quarrel.  But  in  the  end 
they  took  the  downtown  L  together.  You  saw 
them,  flushed  of  face,  with  twitching  fingers,  in 
dulging  in  a  sort  of  orgy  of  dime  spending  in  the 
five-and-ten-cent  store  on  the  wrong  side  of  State 
Street.  They  pawed  over  bolts  of  cheap  lace  and 
bins  of  stuff  in  the  fetid  air  of  the  crowded  place. 
They  would  buy  a  sack  of  salted  peanuts  from 
the  great  mound  in  the  glass  case,  or  a  bag  of  the 
greasy  pink  candy  piled  in  vile  profusion  on  the 
counter,  and  this  they  would  munch  as  they 
went. 

They  came  home  late,  fagged  and  irritable,  and 
supplemented  their  hurried  dinner  with  hastily 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  265 

bought  and  so-called  food  from  the  near-by  deli 
catessen. 

Thus  ran  the  life  of  ease  for  Ben  Westerveld, 
retired  farmer.  And  so  we  find  him  lying  im 
patiently  in  bed,  rubbing  a  nervous  forefinger  over 
the  edge  of  the  sheet  and  saying  to  himself  that, 
well,  here  was  another  day.  What  day  was  it? 
Le'see  now.  Yesterday  was — yesterday — a  little 
feeling  of  panic  came  over  him.  He  couldn't  re 
member  what  yesterday  had  been.  He  counted 
back  laboriously  and  decided  that  to-day  must 
be  Thursday.  Not  that  it  made  any  difference. 

They  had  lived  in  the  city  almost  a  year  now. 
But  the  city  had  not  digested  Ben.  He  was  a 
leathery  morsel  that  could  not  be  assimilated. 
There  he  stuck  in  Chicago's  crop,  contributing 
nothing,  gaining  nothing.  A  rube  in  a  comic  collar 
ambling  aimlessly  about  Halsted  Street,  or  State 
downtown.  You  saw  him  conversing  hungrily  with 
the  gritty  and  taciturn  Swede  who  was  janitor  for 
the  block  of  red-brick  flats.  Ben  used  to  follow 
him  around  pathetically,  engaging  him  in  the 
talk  of  the  day.  Ben  knew  no  men  except  the 
surly  Gus,  Minnie's  husband.  Gus,  the  firebrand, 
thought  Ben  hardly  worthy  of  his  contempt.  If 
Ben  thought,  sometimes,  of  the  respect  with  which 
he  had  always  been  greeted  when  he  clumped  down 


266  HALF  PORTIONS 

the  main  street  of  Commercial,  111. — if  he  thought 
of  how  the  farmers  for  miles  around  had  come 
to  him  for  expert  advice  and  opinion — he  said 
nothing. 

Sometimes  the  janitor  graciously  allowed  Ben  to 
attend  to  the  furnace  of  the  building  in  which  he 
lived.  He  took  out  ashes,  shovelled  coal.  He  tink 
ered  and  rattled  and  shook  things.  You  heard 
him  shovelling  and  scraping  down  there,  and 
smelled  the  acrid  odour  of  his  pipe.  It  gave  him 
something  to  do.  He  would  emerge  sooty  and 
almost  happy. 

"You  been  monkeying  with  that  furnace  again!" 
Bella  would  scold.  "If  you  want  something  to  do, 
why  don't  you  plant  a  garden  in  the  backyard  and 
grow  something.  You  was  crazy  enough  about 
it  on  the  farm." 

His  face  flushed  a  slow,  dull  red  at  that.  He 
could  not  explain  to  her  that  he  lost  no  dignity  in 
his  own  eyes  in  fussing  about  an  inadequate  little 
furnace,  but  that  self-respect  would  not  allow  him 
to  stoop  to  gardening — he  who  had  reigned  over 
six  hundred  acres  of  bountiful  soil. 

On  winter  afternoons  you  saw  him  sometimes  at 
the  movies,  whiling  away  one  of  his  many  idle 
hours  in  the  dim,  close-smelling  atmosphere  of  the 
place.  Tokyo  and  Petrograd  and  Gallipoli  came 
to  him.  He  saw  beautiful  tiger  women  twining  fair, 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  267 

false  arms  about  the  stalwart  but  yielding  forms  of 
young  men  with  cleft  chins.  He  was  only  mildly 
interested.  He  talked  to  any  one  who  would  talk 
to  him,  though  he  was  naturally  a  shy  man.  He 
talked  to  the  barber,  to  the  grocer,  the  druggist, 
the  street-car  conductor,  the  milkman,  the  ice 
man.  But  the  price  of  wheat  did  not  interest 
these  gentlemen.  They  did  not  know  that  the 
price  of  wheat  was  the  most  vital  topic  of  conversa 
tion  in  the  world. 

"Well,  now,"  he  would  say,  "you  take  this 
year's  wheat  crop  with  about  917,000,000  bushels 
of  wheat  harvested,  why,  that's  what's  going  to 
win  the  war!  Yes,  sirree!  No  wheat,  no  win 
ning,  that's  what  I  say." 

"Ya-as,  it  is!"  the  city  men  would  scoff.  But 
the  queer  part  of  it  is  that  Farmer  Ben  was  right. 

Minnie  got  into  the  habit  of  using  him  as  a  sort 
of  nursemaid.  It  gave  her  many  hours  of  un 
earned  freedom  for  gadding  and  gossiping. 

"Pa,  will  you  look  after  Pearlie  for  a  little  while 
this  morning?  I  got  to  run  downtown  to  match 
something  and  she  gets  so  tired  and  mean-acting  if 
I  take  her  along.  Ma's  goin'  with  me." 

He  loved  the  feel  of  Pearlie's  small,  velvet-soft 
hand  in  his  big  fist.  He  called  her  "little  feller," 
and  fed  her  forbidden  dainties.  His  big  brown 
fingers  were  miraculously  deft  at  buttoning  and 


268  HALF  PORTIONS 

unbuttoning  her  tiny  garments,  and  wiping  her 
soft  lips,  and  performing  a  hundred  tender  offices. 
I  think  that  he  was  playing  a  sort  of  game  with 
himself,  and  that  he  pretended  this  was  Dike 
become  a  baby  again.  Once  the  pair  managed  to 
get  over  to  Lincoln  Park,  where  they  spent  a 
glorious  day  looking  at  the  animals,  eating  pop 
corn,  and  riding  on  the  miniature  railway. 

They  returned,  tired,  dusty,  and  happy,  to  a 
double  tirade. 

Bella  engaged  in  a  great  deal  of  what  she  called 
worrying  about  Dike.  Ben  spoke  of  him  seldom, 
but  the  boy  was  always  present  in  his  thoughts. 
They  had  written  him  of  their  move,  but  he  had 
not  seemed  to  get  the  impression  of  its  perma 
nence.  His  letters  indicated  that  he  thought  they 
were  visiting  Minnie,  or  taking  a  vacation  in  the 
city.  Dike's  letters  were  few.  Ben  treasured 
them,  and  read  and  reread  them.  When  the  ar 
mistice  news  came,  and  with  it  the  possibility  of 
Dike's  return,  Ben  tried  to  fancy  him  fitting  into 
the  life  of  the  city.  And  his  whole  being  revolted 
at  the  thought. 

He  saw  the  pimply -faced,  sallow  youths  in  their 
one-button  suits  and  striped  shirts  standing  at  the 
corner  of  Halsted  and  Sixty-Third,  spitting  lan 
guidly  and  handling  their  limp  cigarettes  with  an 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  269 

amazing  labial  dexterity.  Their  conversation 
was  low-voiced,  sinister,  and  terse,  and  their  eyes 
narrowed  as  they  watched  the  over-dressed,  scar 
let-lipped  girls  go  by.  A  great  fear  clutched  at 
Ben  Westerveld's  heart. 

The  lack  of  exercise  and  manual  labour  began  to 
tell  on  Ben.  He  did  not  grow  fat  from  idleness. 
Instead  his  skin  seemed  to  sag  and  hang  on  his 
frame,  like  a  garment  grown  too  large  for  him.  He 
walked  a  great  deal.  Perhaps  that  had  something 
to  do  with  it.  He  tramped  miles  of  city  pave 
ments.  He  was  a  very  lonely  man.  And  then, 
one  day,  quite  by  accident,  he  came  upon  South 
Water  Street.  Came  upon  it,  stared  at  it  as  a 
water-crazed  traveller  in  a  desert  gazes  upon  the 
spring  in  the  oasis,  and  drank  from  it,  thirstily, 
gratefully. 

South  Water  Street  feeds  Chicago.  Into  that 
close-packed  thoroughfare  come  daily  the  fruits 
and  vegetables  that  will  supply  a  million  tables. 
Ben  had  heard  of  it,  vaguely,  but  had  never  at 
tempted  to  find  it.  Now  he  stumbled  upon  it 
and  standing  there  felt  at  home  in  Chicago  for  the 
first  time  in  more  than  a  year.  He  saw  ruddy 
men  walking  about  in  overalls  and  carrying  whips 
in  their  hands — wagon  whips,  actually.  He 
hadn't  seen  men  like  that  since  he  left  the  farm. 
The  sight  of  them  sent  a  great  pang  of  homesick- 


270  HALF  PORTIONS 

ness  through  him.  His  hand  reached  out  and  he 
ran  an  accustomed  finger  over  the  potatoes  in  a 
barrel  on  the  walk.  His  fingers  lingered  and 
gripped  them,  and  passed  over  them  lovingly. 

At  the  contact  something  within  him  that  had 
been  tight  and  hungry  seemed  to  relax,  satisfied. 
It  was  his  nerves,  feeding  on  those  familiar  things 
for  which  they  had  been  starving. 

He  walked  up  one  side  and  down  the  other. 
Crates  of  lettuce,  bins  of  onions,  barrels  of  apples. 
Such  vegetables! 

The  radishes  were  scarlet  globes.  Each  carrot 
was  a  spear  of  pure  orange.  The  green  and 
purple  of  fancy  asparagus  held  his  expert  eye. 
The  cauliflower  was  like  a  great  bouquet,  fit  for  a 
bride;  the  cabbages  glowed  like  jade. 

And  the  men!  He  hadn't  dreamed  there  were 
men  like  that  in  this  big,  shiny-shod,  stiffly 
laundered,  white-collared  city.  Here  were  rufous 
men  in  overalls — worn,  shabby,  easy-looking 
overalls  and  old  blue  shirts,  and  mashed  hats 
worn  at  a  careless  angle.  Men  jovial,  good- 
natured,  with  clear  blue  eyes  and  having  about 
them  some  of  the  revivifying  freshness  and  whole- 
someness  of  the  products  they  handled. 

Ben  Westerveld  breathed  in  the  strong,  pungent 
smell  of  onions  and  garlic  and  of  the  good  earth 
that  seemed  to  cling  to  the  vegetables,  washed 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  271 

clean  though  they  were.  He  breathed  deeply, 
gratefully,  and  felt  strangely  at  peace. 

It  was  a  busy  street.  A  hundred  times  he  had 
to  step  quickly  to  avoid  hand  truck,  or  dray,  or 
laden  wagon.  And  yet  the  busy  men  found  time  to 
greet  him  friendlily:  "H'are  you!"  they  said, 
genially.  "H'are  you  this  morning!" 

He  was  market- wise  enough  to  know  that  some  of 
these  busy  people  were  commission  men,  and  some 
grocers,  and  some  buyers,  stewards,  clerks.  It  was 
a  womanless  thoroughfare.  At  the  busiest  business 
corner,  though,  in  front  of  the  largest  commission 
house  on  the  street,  he  saw  a  woman.  Evidently 
she  was  transacting  business,  too,  for  he  saw  the 
men  bringing  boxes  of  berries  and  vegetables  for 
her  inspection.  A  woman  in  a  plain  blue  skirt  and 
a  small  black  hat. 

He  caught  a  glimpse  of  white-streaked  hair 
beneath  the  hat.  A  funny  job  for  a  woman. 
What  weren't  they  mixing  into  nowadays!  He 
turned  sidewise  in  the  narrow,  crowded  space  in 
order  to  pass  her  little  group.  And  one  of  the 
men — a  red-cheeked,  merry-looking  young  fellow 
in  white  apron — laughed  and  said :  "  Well,  Emma, 
you  win.  When  it  comes  to  driving  a  bargain 
with  you,  I  quit.  It  can't  be  did ! " 

Even  then  he  didn't  know  her.  He  did  not 
dream  that  this  straight,  slim,  tailored,  white- 


272  HALF  PORTIONS 

haired  woman,  bargaining  so  shrewdly  with  these 
men,  was  the  Emma  Byers  of  the  old  days.  But 
he  stopped  there  a  moment,  in  frank  curiosity,  and 
the  woman  looked  up.  She  looked  up,  and  he 
knew  those  intelligent  eyes  and  that  serene  brow. 
He  had  carried  the  picture  of  them  in  his  mind  for 
more  than  thirty  years,  so  it  was  not  so  surprising. 
And  time  deals  kindly  with  women  who  have  in 
telligent  eyes  and  serene  brows. 

He  did  not  hesitate.  He  might  have  if  he  had 
thought  a  moment,  but  he  acted  automatically. 
He  stood  before  her.  "You're  Emma  Byers, 
ain't  you?" 

She  did  not  know  him  at  first.  Small  blame  to 
her,  so  completely  had  the  roguish,  vigorous  boy 
vanished  in  this  sallow,  sad-eyed  old  man.  Then: 
"Why,  Ben!"  she  said,  quietly.  And  there  was 
pity  in  her  voice,  though  she  did  not  mean  to  have 
it  there.  She  put  out  one  hand — that  capable, 
reassuring  hand — and  gripped  his  and  held  it  a 
moment.  It  was  queer  and  significant  that  it 
should  be  his  hand  that  lay  within  hers. 

"Well,  what  in  all  get-out  are  you  doing  around 
here,  Emma?"  He  tried  to  be  jovial  and  easy. 
She  turned  to  the  aproned  man  with  whom  she  had 
been  dealing  and  smiled. 

"What  am  I  doing  here,  Joe? "  she  said. 

Joe  grinned,  waggishly.     "Nothin';  only  beatin* 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  273 

every  man  on  the  street  at  his  own  game,  and 
makin'  so  much  money  that " 

But  she  stopped  him  there.  "I  guess  I'll  do 
my  own  explaining."  She  turned  to  Ben  again. 
"And  what  are  you  doing  here  in  Chicago?  " 

Ben  passed  a  faltering  hand  across  his  chin. 
"Me?  Well,  I'm— we're  livin'  here,  I  s'pose. 
Livin'  here." 

She  glanced  at  him,  sharply.  "Left  the  farm, 
Ben?" 

"Yes." 

"Wait  a  minute."  She  concluded  her  business 
with  Joe;  finished  it  briskly  and  to  her  own  satis 
faction.  With  her  bright  brown  eyes  and  her 
alert  manner  and  her  quick  little  movements  she 
made  you  think  of  a  wren — a  business-like  little 
wren — a  very  early  wren  that  is  highly  versed  in 
the  worm-catching  way. 

At  her  next  utterance  he  was  startled  but  game. 
"Have  you  had  your  lunch?" 

"Why,  no;  I " 

"I've  been  down  here  since  seven,  and  I'm 
starved.  Let's  go  and  have  a  bite  at  the  little 
Greek  restaurant  around  the  corner.  A  cup  of 
coffee  and  a  sandwich,  anyway." 

Seated  at  the  bare  little  table,  she  surveyed  him 
with  those  intelligent,  understanding,  kindly  eyes, 
and  he  felt  the  years  slip  from  him.  They  were 


274  HALF  PORTIONS 

walking  down  the  country  road  together,  and  she 
was  listening  quietly  and  advising  him. 

She  interrogated  him,  gently.  But  something  of 
his  old  masterfulness  came  back  to  him.  "No,  I 
want  to  know  about  you  first.  I  can't  get  the 
rights  of  it,  you  being  here  on  South  Water,  tradin' 
and  all." 

So  she  told  him,  briefly.  She  was  in  the  com 
mission  business.  Successful.  She  bought,  too, 
for  such  hotels  as  the  Blackstone  and  the  Congress, 
and  for  half  a  dozen  big  restaurants.  She  gave 
him  bare  facts,  but  he  was  shrewd  enough  and 
sufficiently  versed  in  business  to  know  that  here 
was  a  woman  of  wealth  and  established  com 
mercial  position. 

"But  how  does  it  happen  you're  keepin'  it  up, 
Emma,  all  this  time?  Why,  you  must  be  anyway 
— it  ain't  that  you  look  it — but "  He  floun 
dered,  stopped. 

She  laughed.  "  That's  all  right,  Ben.  I  couldn't 
fool  you  on  that.  And  I'm  working  because  it 
keeps  me  happy.  I  want  to  work  till  I  die.  My 
children  keep  telling  me  to  stop,  but  I  know  better 
than  that.  I'm  not  going  to  rust  out.  I  want  to 
wear  out."  Then,  at  an  unspoken  question  in  his 
eyes:  "He's  dead.  These  twenty  years.  It 
was  hard  at  first  when  the  children  were  small. 
But  I  knew  garden  stuff  if  I  didn't  know 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  275 

anything  else.  It  came  natural  to  me.  That's 
all." 

So  then  she  got  his  story  from  him  bit  by  bit. 
He  spoke  of  the  farm  and  of  Dike,  and  there  was  a 
great  pride  in  his  voice.  He  spoke  of  Bella,  and 
the  son  who  had  been  killed,  and  of  Minnie.  And 
the  words  came  falteringly.  He  was  trying  to 
hide  something,  and  he  was  not  made  for  decep 
tion.  When  he  had  finished: 

"  Now,  listen,  Ben.     You  go  back  to  your  farm." 

"I  can't.     She-         I  can't." 

She  leaned  forward,  earnestly.  "You  go  back 
to  the  farm." 

He  turned  up  his  palms  with  a  little  gesture  of 
defeat.  "I  can't." 

"You  can't  stay  here.  It's  killing  you.  It's 
poisoning  you.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  toxins? 
That  means  poisons,  and  you're  poisoning  your 
self.  You'll  die  of  it.  You've  got  another  twenty 
years  of  work  in  you.  What's  ailing  you?  You  go 
back  to  your  wheat  and  your  apples  and  your  hogs. 
There  isn't  a  bigger  job  in  the  world  than  that." 

For  a  moment  his  face  took  on  a  glow  from  the 
warmth  of  her  own  inspiring  personality.  But  it 
died  again.  When  they  rose  to  go  his  shoulders 
drooped  again,  his  muscles  sagged.  At  the  door 
way  he  paused  a  moment,  awkward  in  farewell. 
He  blushed  a  little,  stammered. 


276  HALF  PORTIONS 

"Emma — I  always  wanted  to  tell  you.  God 
knows  it  was  luck  for  you  the  way  it  turned  out — 
but  I  always  wanted  to " 

She  took  his  hand  again  in  her  firm  grip  at  that, 
and  her  kindly,  bright  brown  eyes  were  on  him. 
"I  never  held  it  against  you,  Ben.  I  had  to  live  a 
long  time  to  understand  it.  But  I  never  held  a 
grudge.  It  just  wasn't  to  be,  I  suppose.  But 
listen  to  me,  Ben.  You  do  as  I  tell  you.  You  go 
back  to  your  wheat  and  your  apples  and  your 
hogs.  There  isn't  a  bigger  man-size  job  in  the 
world.  It's  where  you  belong." 

Unconsciously  his  shoulders  straightened  again. 
Again  they  sagged.  And  so  they  parted,  the  two. 

He  must  have  walked  almost  all  the  long 
way  home,  through  miles  and  miles  of  city  streets. 
He  must  have  lost  his  way,  too,  for  when  he 
looked  up  at  a  corner  street  sign  it  was  an  unfa 
miliar  one. 

So  he  floundered  about,  asked  his  way,  was  mis 
directed.  He  took  the  right  street  car  at  last  and 
got  off  at  his  own  corner  at  seven  o'clock,  or  later. 
He  was  in  for  a  scolding,  he  knew. 

But  when  he  came  to  his  own  doorway  he  knew 
that  even  his  tardiness  could  not  justify  the  bed 
lam  of  sound  that  came  from  within.  High- 
pitched  voices.  Bella's  above  all  the  rest,  of  course, 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  «77 

but  there  was  Minnie's,  too,  and  Gus's  growl,  and 
Pearlie's  treble,  and  the  boy  Ed's,  and 

At  the  other  voice  his  hand  trembled  so  that  the 
key  rattled  in  the  lock,  and  he  could  not  turn  it. 
But  finally  he  did  turn  it,  and  stumbled  in,  breath 
ing  hard.  And  that  other  voice  was  Dike's. 

He  must  just  have  arrived.  The  flurry  of  ex 
planation  was  still  in  progress.  Dike's  knapsack 
was  still  on  his  back,  and  his  canteen  at  his  hip,  his 
hehnet  slung  over  his  shoulder.  A  brown,  hard, 
glowing  Dike,  strangely  tall  and  handsome  and 
older,  too.  Older. 

All  this  he  saw  in  less  than  one  electric  second. 
Then  he  had  the  boy's  two  shoulders  hi  his  hands, 
and  Dike  was  saying :  "  Hello,  pop." 

Of  the  roomful,  Dike  and  old  Ben  were  the  only 
quiet  ones.  The  others  were  taking  up  the  ex 
planation  and  going  over  it  again  and  again,  and 
marvelling,  and  asking  questions. 

"He  come  in  to — what's  that  place,  Dike? — 
Hoboken — yesterday  only.  An'  he  sent  a  dis 
patch  to  the  farm.  Can't  you  read  our  letters, 
Dike,  that  you  didn't  know  we  was  here  now?  And 
then  he's  only  got  an  hour  more  here.  They  got 
to  go  to  Camp  Grant  to  be,  now,  demobih'zed.  He 
come  out  to  Minnie's  on  a  chance.  Ain't  he  big!" 

But  Dike  and  his  father  were  looking  at  each 
other  quietly.  Then  Dike  spoke.  His  speech  was 


278  HALF  PORTIONS 

not  phlegmatic,  as  of  old.  He  had  a  new  clipped 
way  of  uttering  his  words : 

"Say,  pop,  you  ought  to  see  the  way  the  Fren- 
chies  farm!  They  got  about  an  acre  each,  and, 
say,  they  use  every  inch  of  it.  If  they's  a  little 
dirt  blows  into  the  crotch  of  a  tree,  they  plant  a 
crop  in  there.  I  never  see  nothin'  like  it.  Say, 
we  waste  enough  stuff  over  here  to  keep  that  whole 
country  in  food  for  a  hundred  years.  Yessir. 
And  tools!  Outta  the  ark,  believe  me.  If  they 
ever  saw  our  tractor,  they'd  think  it  was  the  Ger 
mans  comin'  back.  But  they're  smart  at  that.  I 
picked  up  a  lot  of  new  ideas  over  there.  And  you 
ought  to  see  the  old  birds — womenfolks  and  men 
about  eighty  years  old — runnin'  everything  on  the 
farm.  They  had  to.  I  learned  somethin'  off  of 
them  about  farmin'." 

"Forget  the  farm,"  said  Minnie. 

"Yeh,"  echoed  Gus,  "forget  the  farm  stuff.  I 
can  get  you  a  job  here  out  at  the  works  for  four  a 
day,  and  six  when  you  learn  it  right." 

Dike  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  alarm  and 
unbelief  on  his  face.  "What  d'you  mean,  a  job? 
Who  wants  a  job !  What  you  all " 

Bella  laughed,  jovially.  "F'r  Heaven's  sakes, 
Dike,  wake  up!  We're  livin'  here.  This  is  our 
place.  We  ain't  rubes  no  more." 

Dike  turned  to  his  father.     A  little  stunned  look 


FARMER  IN  THE  DELL  279 

crept  into  his  face.  A  stricken,  pitiful  look. 
There  was  something  about  it  that  suddenly  made 
old  Ben  think  of  Pearlie  when  she  had  been  slapped 
by  her  quick -tempered  mother. 

"But  I  been  countin'  on  the  farm,"  he  said, 
miserably.  "I  just  been  livin'  on  the  idea  of 

comin'  back  to  it.  Why,  I The  streets  here, 

they're  all  narrow  and  choked  up.  I  been  countin* 
on  the  farm.  I  want  to  go  back  and  be  a  farmer. 
I  want " 

And  then  Ben  Westerveld  spoke.  A  new  Ben 
Westerveld — no,  not  a  new,  but  the  old  Ben 
Westerveld.  Ben  Westerveld,  the  farmer,  the 
monarch  over  six  hundred  acres  of  bounteous  bot 
tomland. 

"That's  all  right,  Dike,"  he  said.  "You're  go 
ing  back.  So'm  I.  I've  got  another  twenty  years 
of  work  in  me.  We're  going  back  to  the  farm." 

Bella  turned  on  him,  a  wildcat.  "  We  ain't !  Not 
me!  We  ain't!  I'm  not  agoin'  back  to  the  farm." 

But  Ben  Westerveld  was  master  again  in  his  own 
house.  "You're  goin'  back,  Bella,"  he  said, 
quietly.  "An'  things  are  goin'  to  be  different. 
You're  goin'  to  run  the  house  the  way  I  say,  or  I'll 
know  why.  If  you  can't  do  it,  I'll  get  them  in  that 
can.  An'  me  and  Dike,  we're  goin'  back  to  our 
wheat  and  our  apples  and  our  hogs.  Yessir! 
There  ain't  a  bigger  man-size  job  in  the  world." 


THE  DANCING  GIRLS 

WHEN,  on  opening  a  magazine,  you  see  a 
picture  of  a  young  man  in  uniform 
with  a  background  of  assorted  star-shells 
in  full  flower;  a  young  man  in  uniform  gazing  into 
the  eyes  of  a  young  lady  (in  uniform) ;  a  young  man 
in  uniform  crouching  in  a  trench,  dugout,  or  shell- 
hole,  this  happens: 

You  skip  lightly  past  the  story  of  the  young  man 
in  uniform;  you  jump  hurriedly  over  the  picture; 
and  you  plunge  into  the  next  story,  noting  that  it 
is  called  "The  Crimson  Emerald"  and  that,  judg 
ing  from  the  pictures,  all  the  characters  in  it  wear 
evening  clothes  all  the  time. 

Chug  Scaritt  took  his  dose  of  war  with  the  best 
of  them,  but  this  is  of  Chug  before  and  after  tak 
ing.  If,  inadvertently,  there  should  sound  a 
faintly  martial  note  it  shall  be  stifled  at  once  with 
a  series  of  those  stylish  dots  .  .  .  indicative 
of  what  the  early  Victorian  writers  conveniently 
called  a  drawn  veil. 

Nothing  could  be  fairer  than  that. 

Chug  Scaritt  was  (and  is)  the  proprietor  and 
sole  owner  of  the  Elite  Garage,  and  he  pronounced 

280 


THE  DANCING  GIRLS  281 

it  with  a  long  i.  Automobile  parties,  touring 
Wisconsin,  used  to  mistake  him  for  a  handy  man 
about  the  place  and  would  call  to  him,  "Heh,  boy! 
Come  here  and  take  a  look  at  this  engine.  She 
ain't  hitting."  When  Chug  finished  with  her 
she  was  hitting,  all  right.  A  medium-sized  young 
fellow  in  the  early  twenties  with  a  serious  mouth, 
laughing  eyes,  and  a  muscular  grace  pretty  well 
concealed  by  the  grease-grimed  grotesquerie  of 
overalls.  Out  of  the  overalls  and  in  his  tight- 
fitting,  belted  green  suit  and  long-visored  green 
cap  and  flat  russet  shoes  he  looked  too  young  and 
insouciant  to  be  the  sole  owner — much  less  the 
proprietor — of  anything  so  successful  and  estab 
lished  as  the  Elite  Garage. 

In  a  town  like  Chippewa,  Wisconsin — or  in  any 
other  sort  of  town,  for  that  matter — a  prosperous 
garage  knows  more  about  the  scandals  of  the  com 
munity  than  does  a  barber-shop,  a  dressmaker- 
by-the-day,  or  a  pool-room  habitue.  It  conceals 
more  skeletons  than  the  catacombs.  Chug  Scar- 
rit,  had  he  cared  to  open  his  lips  and  speak,  might 
have  poured  forth  such  chronicles  as  to  make 
Spoon  River  sound  a  paean  of  sweetness  and  light. 
He  knew  how  much  Old  Man  Hatton's  chauffeur 
knocked  down  on  gas  and  repairs;  he  knew  just 
how  much  the  Tillotsons  had  gone  into  debt  for 
their  twin-six,  and  why  Emil  Sauter  drove  to 


282  HALF  PORTIONS 

Oshkosh  so  often  on  business,  and  who  supplied 
the  flowers  for  Mrs.  Gurnee's  electric.  Chug  didn't 
encourage  gossip  in  his  garage.  Whenever  pos 
sible  he  put  his  foot  down  on  its  ugly  head  in  a 
vain  attempt  to  crush  it.  But  there  was  something 
about  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  place  that  caused 
it  to  thrive  and  flourish.  It  was  like  a  combina 
tion  newspaper  office  and  Pullman  car  smoker. 
Chug  tried  to  keep  the  thing  down  but  there  might 
generally  be  seen  lounging  about  the  doorway  or 
perched  on  the  running  board  of  an  idle  car  a  little 
group  of  slim,  flat-heeled,  low-voiced  young  men  in 
form-fitting,  high-waisted  suits  of  that  peculiarly 
virulent  shade  of  green  which  makes  its  wearer 
look  as  if  he  had  been  picked  before  he  was  ripe. 

They  were  a  lean,  slim-flanked  crew  with  a  feline 
sort  of  grace  about  them;  terse  of  speech,  quick 
of  eye,  engine-wise,  and,  generally,  nursing  a  boil 
just  above  the  collar  of  their  soft  shirt.  Not 
vicious.  Not  even  tough.  Rather  bored,  though 
they  didn't  know  it.  In  their  boredom  resorting 
to  the  only  sort  of  solace  afforded  boys  of  their 
class  in  a  town  of  Chippewa's  size:  cheap  amuse 
ments,  cheap  girls,  cheap  talk.  This  last  unless 
the  topic  chanced  to  be  of  games  or  of  things 
mechanical.  Baseball,  or  a  sweet-running  engine 
brought  out  the  best  that  was  in  them.  At  their 
worst,  perhaps,  they  stood  well  back  in  the  dim, 


THE  DANCING  GIRLS  283 

cool  shade  of  the  garage  doorway  to  watch  how, 
when  the  girls  went  by  in  their  thin  summer 
dresses,  the  strong  sunlight  made  a  transparency 
of  their  skirts.  At  supper  time  they  would  growl 
to  their  surprised  sisters: 

"Put  on  some  petticoats,  you.  Way  you  girls 
run  around  it's  enough  to  make  a  person  sick." 

Chug  Scaritt  escaped  being  one  of  these  by  a 
double  margin.  There  was  his  business  responsi 
bility  on  one  side;  his  very  early  history  on  the 
other.  Once  you  learn  the  derivation  of  Chug's 
nickname  you  have  that  history  from  the  age 
of  five  to  twenty-five,  inclusive. 

Chug  had  been  christened  Floyd  (she  had  got 
it  out  of  a  book)  but  it  was  an  appendix  rather 
then  an  appellation.  No  one  ever  dreamed  of 
addressing  him  by  that  misnomer,  unless  you  ex 
cept  his  school  teachers.  Once  or  twice  the  boys 
had  tried  to  use  his  name  as  a  weapon,  shrieking 
in  a  shrill  falsetto  and  making  two  syllables  of  it. 
He  put  a  stop  to  that  soon  enough  with  fists  and 
feet.  His  virility  could  have  triumphed  over  a 
name  twice  as  puerile.  For  that  matter,  I  once 
knew  a  young  husky  named  Fayette  who — but 
that's  another  story. 

The  Scaritts  lived  the  other  side  of  the  tracks. 
If  you  know  Chippewa,  or  its  equivalent,  you  get 
the  significance  of  that.  Nobodys.  Not  only 


*84  HALF  PORTIONS 

did  they  live  the  other  side  of  the  tracks;  they  lived 
so  close  to  them  that  the  rush  and  rumble  of  the 
passing  trains  shook  the  two-story  frame  cottage 
and  rattled  the  crockery  on  the  pantry  shelves. 
The  first  intelligible  sound  the  boy  made  was  a 
chesty  chug-chug-chug  in  imitation  of  a  panting 
engine  tugging  its  freight  load  up  the  incline  toward 
the  Junction.  When  Chug  ran  away — which  was 
on  an  average  of  twice  daily — he  was  invariably  to 
be  found  at  the  switchman's  shanty  or  roaming 
about  the  freight  yards.  It  got  so  that  Stumpy 
Gans,  the  one-legged  switchman,  would  hoist  a 
signal  to  let  Mrs.  Scaritt  know  that  Chug  was  safe. 

He  took  his  first  mechanical  toy  apart,  piece  by 
piece.  "Wait  till  your  pa  comes  home!"  his 
mother  had  said,  with  terrible  significance.  Chug, 
deep  in  the  toy's  wreckage,  seemed  undismayed,  so 
Mrs.  Scaritt  gave  him  a  light  promissory  slap  and 
went  on  about  her  housework.  That  night,  before 
supper,  Len  Scaritt  addressed  his  son  with  a  stern 
ness  quite  at  variance  with  his  easy-going  nature. 

"Come  here  to  me!  Now,  then,  what's  this 
about  your  smashing  up  good  toys?  Huh? 
Whatdya  mean!  Christmas  not  two  days  back 
and  here  you  go  smashing " 

The  culprit  trotted  over  to  a  corner  and  returned 
with  the  red-painted  tin  thing  hi  his  hand.  It  was 
as  good  as  new.  There  may  even  have  been  some 


TEE  DANCING  GIRLS  285 

barely  noticeable  improvement  in  its  locomotive 
powers.  Chug  had  merely  taken  it  apart  in  order 
to  put  it  together  again,  and  he  had  been  too  ab 
sorbed  to  pause  long  enough  to  tell  his  mother  so. 
After  that,  nothing  that  bore  wheels,  internally  or 
externally,  was  safe  from  his  investigating  fingers. 

It  was  his  first  velocipede  that  really  gave  him 
his  name.  As  he  rode  up  and  down,  his  short  legs 
working  like  piston-rods  gone  mad,  pedestrians 
w^ould  scatter  in  terror.  His  onrush  was  as  re 
lentless  as  that  of  an  engine  on  a  track,  and  his 
hoarse,  "Chug-chug!  Da-r-r-n-ng!  Da-r-r-n-ng!" 
as  he  bore  down  upon  a  passerby  caused  that  one 
to  sidestep  precipitously  into  the  gutter  (and  none 
too  soon). 

Chug  earned  his  first  real  bicycle  carrying  a 
paper  route  for  the  Chippewa  Eagle.  It  took  him 
two  years.  By  the  time  he  had  acquired  it  he 
knew  so  much  about  bicycles,  from  ball-bearings 
to  handle-bars,  that  its  possession  roused  very 
little  thrill  in  him.  It  was  as  when  a  lover  has  had 
to  wait  over-long  for  his  bride.  As  Chug  whizzed 
about  Chippewa's  streets,  ringing  an  unnecessarily 
insistent  bell,  you  sensed  that  a  motorcycle  was 
already  looming  large  in  his  mechanism-loving 
mind.  By  the  time  he  was  seventeen  Chug's 
motorcycle  was  spitting  its  way  venomously  down 
Elm  Street.  And  the  sequence  of  the  seasons  was 


286  HALF  PORTIONS 

not  more  inevitable  than  that  an  automobile  should 
follow  the  motorcycle.  True,  he  practically  built 
it  himself,  out  of  what  appeared  to  be  an  old  wash- 
boiler,  some  wire,  and  an  engine  made  up  of  parts 
that  embraced  every  known  car  from  Ford  to  Fiat. 
He  painted  it  an  undeniable  red,  hooded  it  like  a 
demon  racer,  and  shifted  to  first.  The  thing  went. 

He  was  a  natural  mechanic.  He  couldn't  spend 
a  day  with  a  piece  of  mechanism  without  having 
speeded  it  up,  or  in  some  way  done  something  to 
its  belt,  gears,  wheels,  motor.  He  was  almost 
never  separated  from  a  monkey-wrench  or  pliers, 
and  he  was  always  turning  a  nut  or  bolt  or  screw 
in  his  grease-grimed  fingers. 

Right  here  it  should  be  understood  that  Chug 
never  became  a  Steinmetz  or  a  Wright.  He 
remained  just  average-plus  to  the  end,  with  some 
thing  more  than  a  knack  at  things  mechanical;  a 
good  deal  of  grease  beneath  his  nails;  and,  gen 
erally,  a  smudge  under  one  eye  or  a  swipe  of  black 
across  a  cheek  that  gave  him  a  misleadingly  sinis 
ter  and  piratical  look.  There's  nothing  very 
magnificent,  surely,  in  being  the  proprietor  of  a 
garage,  even  if  it  is  the  best-paying  garage  in 
Chippewa,  where  six  out  of  ten  families  own  a  car, 
and  summer  tourists  are  as  locusts  turned  bene 
ficent. 

Some  time  between  Chug's  motorcycle  and  the 


THE  DANCING  GIRLS  287 

home-made  automobile  Len  Scaritt  died.  The 
loss  to  the  household  was  social  more  than  eco 
nomic.  Len  had  been  one  of  those  good-natured, 
voluble,  walr us -moust ached  men  who  make  such 
poor  providers.  A  carpenter  by  trade,  he  had  al 
ways  been  a  spasmodic  worker  and  a  steady  talker. 
His  high,  hollow  voice  went  on  endlessly  above 
the  fusillade  of  hammers  at  work  and  the  clatter 
of  dishes  at  home.  Politics,  unions,  world  events, 
local  happenings,  neighbourhood  gossip,  all  fed  the 
endless  stream  of  his  loquacity. 

"Well,  now,  looka  here.  Take,  frins'ance,  one 
these  here  big  concerns 

After  he  was  gone  Mrs.  Scaritt  used  to  find  her 
self  listening  to  the  silence.  His  ceaseless  talk 
had  often  rasped  her  nerves  to  the  point  of  hysteria, 
but  now  she  missed  it  as  we  miss  a  dull  ache  to 
which  we  have  grown  accustomed. 

Chug  was  in  his  second  year  at  the  Chippewa 
high  school.  He  had  always  earned  some  money, 
afternoons  and  Saturdays.  Now  he  quit  to  go  to 
work  in  earnest.  His  mother  took  it  hard. 

"I  wanted  you  to  have  an  education,"  she  said. 
"Not  just  schooling.  An  education."  Mittie 
Scaritt  had  always  had  ambition  and  a  fierce  sort 
of  pride.  She  had  needed  them  to  combat  Len's 
shiftlessness  and  slack  good  nature.  They  had 
kept  the  two-story  frame  cottage  painted  and  tidy, 


£88  HALF  PORTIONS 

had  her  pride  and  ambition;  they  had  managed  a 
Sunday  suit,  always,  for  Chug;  money  for  the 
contribution  box;  pork  roast  on  Sundays;  and  a 
sitting  room,  chill  but  elegant,  with  its  plump 
pyramids  of  pillows,  embroidered  with  impossible 
daisies  and  carnations  and  violets,  filling  every 
corner. 

Mrs.  Scaritt  had  had  to  fight  for  Chug's  two 
years  of  high  school.  "He  don't  need  no  high 
school,"  Len  Scaritt  had  argued,  in  one  of  the  rare 
quarrels  between  the  two.  "I  never  had  none.'* 

The  retort  to  this  was  so  obvious  that  his  wife 
refrained  from  uttering  it.  Len  continued:  "He 
don't  go  with  none  of  my  money.  His  age  I  was 
working  'n'  had  been  for  three  years  and  more. 
You'll  be  fixing  to  send  him  to  college,  next." 

"Well,  if  I  do?     Then  what?" 

"Then  you're  crazy,"  said  Len,  without  heat, 
as  one  would  state  a  self-evident  fact. 

That  afternoon  Mrs.  Scaritt  went  down  to  the 
office  of  the  Eagle  and  inserted  a  neat  ad. 

LACE     CURTAINS      DONE     UP     LIKE     NEW.       25 
CENTS  A  PR.      MRS.  SCARITT,  639  OUTAGAMIE  ST. 

For  years  afterward  you  never  passed  the  Scaritt 
place  without  seeing  the  long  skeleton  frames  of 
wooden  curtain  stretchers  propped  up  against 
the  back  porch  in  the  sun.  Mrs.  Scaritt  became 


THE  DANCING  GIRLS  289 

famous  for  her  curtains  as  an  artist  is  known  for 
his  middle  distances,  his  woodland  green,  or  his 
flesh  tones.  In  time  even  the  Hattons,  who  had 
always  heretofore  sent  their  fine  curtains  to  Mil 
waukee  to  be  cleaned,  trusted  their  lacy  treasures 
to  Mrs.  Scaritt's  expert  hands. 

Chug  went  to  high  school  on  those  lace  curtains. 
He  used  to  call  for  and  deliver  them.  He  rigged 
up  a  shelf  -like  device  on  his  bicycle  handlebars. 
On  this  the  freshly  laundered  curtains  reposed  in 
their  neat  paper  wrappings  as  un wrinkled  as  when 
they  had  come  from  the  stretching  frame. 

At  seventeen  he  went  to  work  in  the  Elite  Ga 
rage.  He  hadn't  been  there  a  month  before  the 
owner  was  saying,  "Say,  Chug,  take  a  look  at  this 
here  bus,  will  you?  She  don't  run  right  but  I 
can't  find  out  what's  got  into  her." 

Chug  would  put  his  ear  to  the  heart  of  the  car, 
and  tap  its  vitals,  and  count  its  pulse-beats  as  a 
doctor  sounds  you  with  his  stethoscope.  The 
look  on  his  face  was  that  of  a  violinist  who  tries 
his  G-string. 

For  the  rest,  he  filled  gas  tanks,  changed  and 
pumped  up  tires,  tested  batteries,  oiled  tappets. 
But  the  thing  that  fascinated  him  was  the  engine. 
An  oily,  blue-eyed  boy  in  spattered  overalls,  he 
was  always  just  emerging  from  beneath  a  car,  or 
crawling  under  it.  When  a  new  car  came  in,  en 


290  HALF  PORTIONS 

route — a  proud,  glittering  affair — he  always  man 
aged  to  get  a  chance  at  it  somehow,  though  the 
owner  or  chauffeur  guarded  it  ever  so  jealously. 
The  only  thing  on  wheels  that  he  really  despised 
was  an  electric  brougham.  Chippewa's  well- 
paved  streets  made  these  vehicles  possible.  Your 
true  garage  man's  feeling  for  electrics  is  unprint 
able.  The  least  that  they  called  them  was  juice- 
boxes. 

At  home  Chug  was  forever  rigging  up  labour- 
saving  devices  for  his  mother.  The  Scaritt's 
window-shades  always  rolled;  their  doorbell 
always  rang  with  a  satisfactory  zing;  their  suc 
tion-pump  never  stuck.  By  the  time  he  was 
twenty  Chug  was  manager  of  the  garage  and  his 
mother  was  saying,  "You're  around  that  garage 
sixteen  hours  a  day.  When  you're  home  you're 
everlastingly  reading  those  engineering  papers 
and  things.  Your  pa  at  your  age  had  a  girl 
for  every  night  in  the  week  and  two  on  Sundays." 

"Another  year  or  so  and  I  can  buy  out  old 
Behnke  and  own  the  place.  Soon's  I  do  I'm  going 
to  come  home  in  the  speediest  boat  in  the  barn, 
and  I'm  going  to  bust  up  those  curtain  frames  into 
kindling  wood,  over  my  knee,  and  pile  'em  in  the 
backyard  and  make  a  bonfire  out  of  'em." 

"  They've  been  pretty  good  friends  to  us,  Chug — 
those  curtain  frames." 


THE  DANCING  GIRLS  291 

"Um."  He  glanced  at  her  parboiled  fingers. 
"Just  the  same,  it'll  be  nix  with  the  lace  curtains 
for  you." 

Glancing  back  on  what  has  been  told  of  Chug  he 
sounds,  somehow,  so  much  like  a  modern  Rollo, 
with  a  dash  of  Alger,  that  unless  something  is  told 
of  his  social  side  he  may  be  misunderstood. 

Chug  was  a  natural  born  dancer.  There  are 
young  men  who,  after  the  music  has  struck  up, 
can  start  out  incredibly  enough  by  saying:  "What 
is  this,  anyway — waltz  or  fox  trot?"  This  was 
inconceivable  to  Chug.  He  had  never  had  a 
dancing  lesson  in  his  life,  but  he  had  a  sense  of 
rhythm  that  was  infallible.  He  could  no  more 
have  danced  out  of  time  than  he  could  have  started 
a  car  on  high,  or  confused  a  flivver  with  a  Twelve. 
He  didn't  look  particularly  swanlike  as  he  danced, 
having  large,  sensible  feet,  but  they  were  expert  at 
not  being  where  someone  else's  feet  happened  to  be, 
arid  he  could  time  a  beat  to  the  fraction  of  a  second. 

When  you  have  practically  spent  your  entire 
day  sprawled  under  a  balky  car,  with  a  piece  of 
dirty  mat  between  you  and  the  cement  floor,  your 
view  limited  to  crank-case,  transmission,  univer 
sal,  fly-wheel,  differential,  pan,  and  brake-rods 
you  can  do  with  a  bit  of  colour  in  the  evening. 
And  just  here  was  where  Chippewa  failed  Chug. 

He  had  a  grave  problem  confronting  him  in  his 


292  HALF  PORTIONS 

search  for  an  evening's  amusement.  Chippewa, 
Wisconsin,  was  proud  of  its  paved  streets,  its 
thirty  thousand  population,  its  lighting  system, 
and  the  Greek  temple  that  was  the  new  First 
National  Bank.  It  boasted  of  its  interurban  lines, 
its  neat  houses  set  well  back  among  old  elms,  its 
paper  mills,  its  plough  works,  and  its  prosperity. 
If  you  had  told  Chippewa  that  it  was  criminally 
ignoring  Chug's  crying  need  it  would  have  put 
you  down  as  mad. 

Boiled  down,  Chug  Scaritt's  crying  need  was 
girls.  At  twenty-two  or  three  you  must  have  girls 
in  your  life  if  you're  normal.  Chug  was,  but 
Chippewa  wasn't.  It  had  too  many  millionaires 
at  one  end  and  too  many  labourers  at  the  other 
for  a  town  of  thirty  thousand.  Its  millionaires 
had  their  golf  club,  their  high-powered  cars,  their 
smart  social  functions.  They  were  always  run 
ning  down  to  Chicago  to  hear  Galli-Curci;  and 
when  it  came  to  costume — diamond  bracelet,  dar 
ing  decolletage,  large  feather  fans,  and  brilliant- 
buckled  slippers — you  couldn't  tell  their  women 
from  the  city  dwellers.  There  is  much  money  in 
paper  mills  and  plough  works. 

The  mill  hands  and  their  families  were  well- 
paid,  thrifty,  clannish  Swedes,  most  of  them,  with 
a  liberal  sprinkling  of  Belgians  and  Slavs.  They 
belonged  to  all  sorts  of  societies  and  lodges  to 


THE  DANCING  GIRLS  293 

which  they  paid  infinitesimal  dues  and  swore  life 
long  allegiance. 

Chug  Scaritt  and  boys  of  his  kind  were  left  high 
and  dry.  So,  then,  when  Chug  went  out  with  a 
girl  it  was  likely  to  be  by  way  of  someone's  kit 
chen;  or  with  one  of  those  who  worked  in  the  rag 
room  at  the  paper  and  pulp  mill.  They  were  the 
very  girls  who  switched  up  and  down  in  front  of 
the  garage  evenings  and  Saturday  afternoons. 
Many  of  them  had  been  farm  girls  in  Michigan  or 
northern  Wisconsin  or  even  Minnesota.  In  Chip- 
pewa  they  did  housework.  Big,  robust  girls  they 
were,  miraculously  well  dressed  in  good  shoes  and 
suits  and  hats.  They  had  bad  teeth,  for  the  most 
part,  with  a  scum  over  them;  over-fond  of  coffee; 
and  were  rather  dull  company.  But  they  were 
good-natured,  and  hearty,  and  generous. 

The  paper-mill  girls  were  quite  another  type. 
Theirs  was  a  grayish  pallor  due  to  lungs  dust- 
choked  from  work  in  the  rag  room.  That  same 
pallor  promised  ill  for  future  generations  in  Chip- 
pewa.  But  they  had  a  rather  appealing,  wistful 
fragility.  Their  eyes  generally  looked  too  big  for 
their  faces.  They  possessed,  though,  a  certain 
vivacity  and  diablerie  that  the  big,  slower-witted 
Swede  girls  lacked. 

When  Chug  felt  the  need  of  a  dash  of  red  in  the 
evening  he  had  little  choice.  In  the  winter  he 


294  HALF  PORTIONS 

often  went  up  to  Woodman's  Hall.  The  dances  at 
Woodman's  Hall  were  of  the  kind  advertised  at 
fifty  cents  a  couple.  Extra  lady,  twenty-five  cents. 
Ladies  without  gents,  thirty -five  cents.  Berg- 
strom's  two-piece  orchestra.  Chug  usually  went 
alone,  but  he  escorted  home  one  of  the  ladies- 
without-gents.  It  was  not  that  he  begrudged  the 
fifty  cents.  Chug  was  free  enough  with  his  money. 
He  went  to  these  dances  on  a  last-minute  impulse, 
almost  against  his  will,  and  out  of  sheer  boredom. 
Once  there  he  danced  every  dance  and  all  the 
encores.  The  girls  fought  for  him.  Their  manner 
of  dancing  was  cheek  to  cheek,  in  wordless  rhythm. 
His  arm  about  the  ample  waist  of  one  of  the  Swed 
ish  girls,  or  clasping  close  the  frail  form  of  one  of 
the  mill  hands,  Chug  would  dance  on  and  on, 
indefatigably,  until  the  music  played  "Home  Sweet 
Home."  The  conversation,  if  any,  varied  little. 

"The  music's  swell  to-night,"  from  the  girl. 

"Yeh." 

"  You're  some  little  dancer,  Chug,  I'll  say.  Hon 
est,  I  could  dance  with  you  forever."  This  with  a 
pressure  of  the  girl's  arm,  and  spoken  with  a  little 
accent,  whether  Swedish,  Belgian,  or  Slavic. 

"They  all  say  that." 

"Crazy  about  yourself,  ain't  you!" 

"Not  as  crazy  as  I  am  about  you,"  with  tardy 
gallantry. 


THE  DANCING  GIRLS  295 

He  was  very  little  stirred,  really. 

"Yeh,  you  are.  I  wish  you  was.  It  makes 
no  never  minds  to  you  who  you're  dancing  with, 
s'long's  you're  dancing." 

This  last  came  one  evening  as  a  variant  in  the 
usual  formula.  It  startled  Chug  a  little,  so  that 
he  held  the  girl  off  the  better  to  look  at  her.  She 
was  Wanda  something-or-other,  and  anybody  but 
Chug  would  have  been  alive  to  the  fact  that  she 
had  been  stalking  him  for  weeks  with  a  stolid 
persistence. 

"  Danced  with  you  three  times  to-night,  haven't 
I?"  he  demanded.  He  was  rather  surprised  to 
find  that  this  was  so. 

"Wisht  it  was  thirty." 

That  was  Wanda.  Her  very  eagerness  foiled 
her.  She  cheapened  herself.  When  Chug  said, 
"  Can  I  see  you  home?  "  he  knew  the  answer  before 
he  put  the  question.  Too  easy  to  get  along  with, 
Wanda.  Always  there  ahead  of  time,  waiting,  when 
you  made  a  date  with  her.  Too  ready  to  forgive 
you  when  you  failed  to  show  up.  Telephoned  you 
when  you  were  busy.  Didn't  give  a  fellow  a 
chance  to  come  half  way,  but  went  seven  eighths  of 
it  herself.  An  ignorant,  kindly,  dangerous  girl, 
with  the  physical  development  of  a  woman  .and 
the  mind  of  a  child.  There  were  dozens  like  her 
in  Chippewa. 


296  HALF  PORTIONS 

If  the  girls  of  his  own  class  noticed  him  at  all 
it  was  the  more  to  ignore  him  as  a  rather  grimy 
mechanic  passing  briefly  before  their  vision  down 
Outagamie  Street  on  his  way  to  and  from  dinner, 
He  was  shy  of  them.  They  had  a  middle-class 
primness  which  forbade  their  making  advances 
even  had  they  been  so  inclined.  Chug  would  no 
more  have  scraped  acquaintance  with  them  than 
he  would  have  tried  to  flirt  with  Angie  Hatton, 
Old  Man  Hatton's  daughter,  and  the  richest  girl 
in  Chippewa — so  rich  that  she  drove  her  own  car 
with  the  chauffeur  stuck  up  behind. 

You  didn't  have  to  worry  about  Wanda  and  her 
kind.  There  they  were,  take  them  or  leave  them. 
They  expected  you  to  squeeze  their  waist  when 
you  danced  with  them,  and  so  you  did.  You 
didn't  have  to  think  about  what  you  were  going 
to  say  to  them. 

Mrs.  Scaritt  suspected  in  a  vague  sort  of  way 
that  Chug  was  "running  with  the  hired  girls." 
The  thought  distressed  her.  She  was  too  smart 
a  woman  to  nag  him  about  it.  She  tried  diplo 
macy. 

"Why  don't  you  bring  some  young  folks  home 
to  eat,  Chug?  I  like  to  fuss  around  for  company." 
She  was  a  wonderful  cook,  Mrs.  Scaritt,  and 
liked  to  display  her  skill. 

"Who  is  there  to  bring?" 


THE  DANCING  GIRLS  297 

"  The  boys  and  girls  you  go  around  with.  Who 
is  it  you're  always  fixing  up  for,  evenings?" 

"Nobody." 

Mrs.  Scaritt  tried  another  tack. 

"T  s'pose  this  house  isn't  good  enough  for  'em? 
Is  that  it?" 

"Good  enough!"  Chug  laughed  rather  grimly. 
"I'd  like  to  know  what's  the  matter  with  it!" 

There  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  nothing  the  mat 
ter  with  it.  It  was  as  spick  and  span  as  paint  and 
polish  could  make  it.  The  curtain-stretching 
days  were  long  past.  There  had  even  been  talk 
of  moving  out  of  the  house  by  the  tracks,  but  at 
the  last  moment  Mrs.  Scaritt  had  rebelled. 

"I'll  miss  the  sound  of  the  trains.  I'm  used  to 
'em.  It's  got  so  I  can  tell  just  where  my  right 
hand '11  be  when  the  seven  fifty -two  goes  by  in  the 
morning,  and  I've  got  used  to  putting  on  the  pota 
toes  when  I  hear  the  'leven-forty.  Let's  stay, 
Chug." 

So  they  had  stayed.  Gradually  they  had  added 
an  improvement  here,  a  convenience  there,  as 
Chug's  prosperity  grew,  until  now  the  cottage  by 
the  tracks  was  newly  painted,  bathroomed,  elec 
tric-lighted,  with  a  cement  walk  front  and  back 
and  a  porch  with  a  wicker  swing  and  flower  baskets. 
Chug  gave  his  mother  more  housekeeping  money 
than  she  needed,  though  she,  in  turn,  served  him 


298  lrALF  PORTIONS 

meals  that  would  have  threatened  the  waist-line  of 
an  older  and  less  active  man.  There  was  a  banana 
pie,  for  instance  (it  sounds  sickish,  but  wait!) 
which  she  baked  in  a  deep  pan,  and  over  which  she 
poured  a  gold<>n-brown  custard  all  flecked  with 
crusty  melted  /  sugar.  You  took  a  bite  and  lo ! 
it  had  vanished  like  a  sweet  dewdrop,  leaving  in 
your  mouth  u  taste  as  of  nectar,  and  clover-honey, 
and  velvet  cream. 

Mrs.  Scaritt  learned  to  gauge  Chug's  plans  for 
the  evening  by  his  ablutions.  Elaborate  enough 
at  any  time,  on  dance  nights  they  amounted  to  a 
rite.  In  the  old  days  Chug's  father  had  always 
made  a  brief  enough  business  of  the  process  he 
called  washing  up.  A  hand-basin  in  the  kitchen 
sink  or  on  the  back-porch  bench  sufficed.  The 
noises  he  made  were  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
results  obtained.  His  snufflings,  and  snortings, 
and  splashings  were  like  those  of  a  grampus  at  play. 
When  he  emerged  from  them  you  were  surprised 
to  find  that  he  had  merely  washed  his  face. 

Chug  had  grease  to  fight.  He  had  learned  how 
in  his  first  days  at  the  garage.  His  teacher  had 
been  old  Rudie,  a  mechanic  who  had  tinkered 
around  automobiles  since  their  kerosene  days,  and 
who  knew  more  about  them  than  their  inventor. 
Soap  and  water  alone  were  powerless  against  the 
grease  and  carbon  and  dust  that  ground  themselves 


DANCING  GIRLS  299 

into  Chug's  skin.  First,  he  lathered  himself  with 
warm,  soapy  water.  Then,  while  arms,  neck, 
and  face  were  still  wet,  he  covered  them  with  oil — 
preferably  lubricating  oil,  medium.  Finally  he 
rubbed  sawdust  o'Ver  all ;  great  handf uls  of  it.  The 
grease  rolled  out  then,  magically,  leaving  his  skin 
smooth  and  white.*  Old  Rudie,  while  advocating 
this  process,  made  little  use  of  it.  He  dispatched 
the  whole  grimy  business  by  the  simple  method  of 
washing  in  gasoline  guaranteed  to  take  the  varnish 
off  a  car  fender.  It  seamed  to  leave  Rudie's  tough 
hide  undevastated. 

At  twenty-four  Chug  Scs^itt  was  an  upstand 
ing,  level-headed,  and  successful  young  fellow 
who  worked  hard  all  day  and  found  himself  restless 
and  almost  irritable  toward  evening.  He  could 
stay  home  and  read,  or  go  back  to  the  garage, 
though  after  eight  things  were  very  quiet.  For 
amusement  there  were  the  pool  shack,  the  chejp 
dances,  the  street  corner,  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  This 
last  had  proved  a  boon.  The  swimming  pool, 
the  gym,  the  reading  room,  had  given  Chug  many 
happy,  healthful  hours.  But,  after  all,  there  was 
something 

Chug  didn't  know  it  was  girls — girls  you  could 
talk  to,  and  be  with,  and  take  around.  But  it 
was.  After  an  hour  in  the  pool,  or  around  the 
reading  table,  or  talking  and  smoking,  he  usually 


300  HALF  PORTION? 

drifted  out  into  the  quiet  street  He  could  go 
home.  Or  there  was  Wanda.  li  he  went  home 
he  found  himself  snapping  rather  irritably  at  his 
mother,  for  no  reason  at  all.  Ajhamed  of  doing 
it.  Powerless,  somehow,  to  stoj. 

He  took  to  driving  in  the  evening:  long  drives 
along  the  country  roads,  his  cip  pulled  low  over 
his  eyes,  the  wind  blowing  fnsn  m  his  face.  He 
used  to  cover  mile  on  mile,  sitting  slumped  low 
on  his  spine,  his  eyes  on  theroad;  the  engine  run 
ning  sweet  and  true.  Sorretimes  he  took  Wanda 
along,  or  one  of  the  mjl  girls.  But  not  often. 
They  were  disappoir^d  if  you  didn't  drive  with 
one  arm  around  tjem.  He  liked  being  alone.  It 
soothed  him. 

It  was  %<,  that  he  first  met  the  Weld  girl.  The 
Weld  jfti  was  the  plain  daughter  of  the  Widow 
WeJ£  The  Widow  Weld  was  a  musical-comedy 
?5rt  of  widow  in  French-heeled,  patent-leather  slip 
pers  and  girlish  gowns.  When  you  met  her  to 
gether  with  her  daughter  Elizabeth  you  were  sup 
posed  to  say,  "Not  mother  and  daughter!  Surely 
not!  Sisters,  of  course."  Elizabeth  was  twenty- 
four  and  not  a  success.  At  the  golf-club  dances  on 
Saturday  night  she  would  sit,  unsought,  against 
the  wall  while  her  skittish  mother  tripped  it  with 
the  doggish  bachelors.  Sometimes  a  man  would 
cross  the  floor  toward  her  and  her  heart  would  give 


THE  DANCING  GIRLS  301 

a  little  leap,  but  he  always  asked  the  girl  seated 
two  chairs  away.  Elizabeth  danced  much  better 
than  her  mother — much  better  than  most  girls, 
for  that  matter.  But  she  was  small,  and  dark, 
and  rather  shy,  and  wore  thick  glasses  that  dis 
guised  the  fineness  of  her  black-lashed  gray  eyes. 
Now  and  then  her  mother,  flushed  and  laughing, 
would  come  up  and  say,  "Is  my  little  girl  having  a 
good  time?"  The  Welds  had  no  money,  but  they 
belonged  to  Chippewa's  fashionable  set.  There 
were  those  who  lifted  significant  eyebrows  at  men 
tion  of  the  Widow  Weld's  name,  and  it  was  com 
mon  knowledge  that  no  maid  would  stay  with  her 
for  any  length  of  time  because  of  the  scanty 
provender.  The  widow  kowtowed  shamelessly  to 
the  moneyed  ones  of  Chippewa,  flattering  the 
women,  flirting  with  the  men.  Elizabeth  had 
no  illusions  about  her  mother,  but  she  was  stub 
bornly  loyal  to  her.  Her  manner  toward  her 
kittenish  parent  was  rather  sternly  maternal.  But 
she  was  the  honest  sort  that  congenitally  hates 
sham  and  pretence.  She  was  often  deliberately 
rude  to  the  very  people  toward  whom  her  mother 
was  servile.  Her  strange  friendship  with  Angie 
Hatton,  the  lovely  and  millioned,  was  the  one 
thing  in  Elizabeth's  life  of  which  her  Machiavellian 
mother  approved. 

"  Betty,  you  practically  stuck  out  your  tongue 


302  HALF  PORTIONS 

at  Mr.  Oakley!"  This  after  a  dance  at  which 
Elizabeth  had  been  paired  off,  as  usual,  with  the 
puffy  and  red-eyed  old  widower  of  that  name. 

"I  don't  care.  His  hands  are  fat  and  he  creaks 
when  he  breathes." 

"Next  to  Hatton,  he's  the  richest  man  in  Chip- 
pewa.  And  he  likes  you." 

"He'd  better  not!"  She  spat  it  out,  and  the 
gray  eyes  blazed  behind  the  glasses.  "I'd  rather 
be  plastered  up  against  the  wall  all  my  life  than 
dance  with  him.  Fat!" 

"Well,  my  dear,  you're  no  beauty,  you  know," 
with  cruel  frankness. 

"I'm  not  much  to  look  at,"  replied  Elizabeth, 
"but  I'm  beautiful  inside." 

"Rot!"  retorted  the  Widow  Weld,  inelegantly. 

Had  you  lived  in  Chippewa  all  this  explanation 
would  have  been  unnecessary.  In  that  terrifying 
way  small  towns  have,  it  was  known  that  of  all 
codfish  aristocracy  the  Widow  Weld  was  the 
piscatorial  pinnacle. 

When  Chug  Scaritt  first  met  the  Weld  girl  she 
was  standing  out  in  the  middle  of  the  country  road 
at  ten-thirty  P.M.,  her  arms  outstretched  and  the 
blood  running  down  one  cheek.  He  had  been 
purring  along  the  road  toward  home,  drowsy 
and  lulled  by  the  motion  and  the  April  air.  His 
thoughts  had  been  drowsy,  too,  and  disconnected. 


THE  DANCING  GIRLS  303 

"  If  I  can  rent  Bergstrom's  place  next  door  when 
their  lease  is  up  I'll  knock  down  the  partition  and 
put  in  auto  supplies.  There's  big  money  in 
'em.  .  .  .  Guess  if  it  keeps  on  warm  like 
this  we  can  plant  the  garden  next  week.  .  .  . 
That  was  swell  cake  Ma  had  for  supper.  .  .  . 
What's  that  in  the  road !  What's  !- 

Jammed  down  the  foot-brake.  Jerked  back 
the  emergency.  A  girl  standing  in  the  road.  A 
dark  mass  in  the  ditch  by  the  road-side.  He 
was  out  of  his  car.  He  recognized  her  as  the 
Weld  girl. 

"'S'matter?" 

"  In  the  ditch.     She's  hurt.     Quick ! " 

"Whose  car?"  Chug  was  scrambling  down  the 
banks. 

"Hatton's.     Angie  Hatton's." 

"Gosh!" 

Over  by  the  fence,  where  she  had  been  flung, 
Angie  Hat  ton  was  found  sitting  up,  dizzily,  and 
saying,  "Betty!  Betty!"  in  what  she  supposed 
was  a  loud  cry  but  which  was  really  a  whisper. 

"I'm  all  right,  dear.  I'm  all  right.  Oh,  Angie, 
are  you — 

She  was  cut  and  bruised,  and  her  wrist  had  been 
broken.  The  two  girls  clung  to  each  other,  word 
lessly.  The  thing  was  miraculous,  in  view  of  the 
car  that  lay  perilously  tipped  on  its  fender. 


304  HALF  PORTIONS 

"You're  a  lucky  bunch,"  said  Chug.  "Who 
was  driving?" 

"I  was,"  said  Angie  Hatton. 

"It  wasn't  her  fault,"  the  Weld  girl  put  in, 
quickly.  "We  were  coming  from  Winnebago. 
She's  a  wonderful  driver.  We  met  a  farm-wagon 
corning  toward  us.  One  of  those  big  ones.  The 
middle  of  the  road.  Perhaps  he  was  asleep.  He 
didn't  turn  out.  We  thought  he  would,  of  course. 
At  the  last  minute  we  had  to  try  for  the  ditch. 
It  was  too  steep." 

"Anyway,  you're  nervy  kids,  both  of  you.  I'll 
have  you  both  home  in  twenty  minutes.  We'll 
have  to  leave  five  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  car 
in  the  road  till  morning.  It'll  be  all  right." 

He  did  get  them  home  in  twenty  minutes  and  the 
five  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  car  was  still  lying 
repentantly  in  the  ditch  when  morning  came. 
Old  Man  Hatton  himself  came  into  the  garage  to 
thank  Chug  the  following  day.  Chug  met  him  in 
overalls,  smudge-faced  as  he  was.  Old  Man 
Hatton  put  out  his  hand.  Chug  grinned  and 
looked  at  his  own  grease-grimed  paw. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Old  Man  Hatton,  and 
grasped  it  firmly.  "Want  to  thank  you." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Chug.  "Didn't  do  a 
thing." 

"No  business  driving  alone  that  hour  of  the 


THE  DANCING  GIRLS  305 

night.  Girls  nowadays "  He  looked  around 

the  garage.  "Work  here,  I  suppose?" 

"Yessir." 

"If  there's  anything  I  can  do  for  you?  Over 
at  the  mill." 

"Guess  not,"  said  Chug. 

"Treat  you  right  here,  do  they?" 

"Fine." 

"Let's  see.     Who  owns  this  place?" 

"I  do." 

Old  Man  Hatton's  face  broke  into  a  sunburst  of 
laugh-wrinkles.  He  threw  back  his  head  and  went 
the  scale  from  roar  to  chuckle.  "One  on  me. 
Pretty  good.  Have  to  tell  Angie  that  one." 

Chug  walked  to  the  street  with  him.  "Your 
daughter,  she's  got  a  lot  of  nerve,  all  right.  And 
that  girl  with  her — Weld.  Say,  not  a  whimper 
out  of  her  and  the  blood  running  down  her  face. 
She  all  right?" 

"Cut  her  head  a  little.  They're  both  all  right. 
Angie  wouldn't  even  stay  in  bed.  Well,  as  I  say, 
if  there's  anything ?" 

Chug  flushed  a  little.  "Tell  you  what,  Mr. 
Hatton.  I'm  working  on  a  thing  that'll  take  the 
whine  out  of  the  Daker." 

Old  Man  Hatton  owned  the  Daker  Motor  plant 
among  other  things.  The  Daker  is  the  best  car 
for  the  money  in  the  world.  Not  much  for  looks 


306  HALF  PORTIONS 

but  everything  in  the  engine.  And  everyone  who 
has  ever  owned  one  knows  that  its  only  fault  is  the 
way  its  engine  moans.  Daker  owners  hate  that 
moan.  When  you're  going  right  it  sounds  a  pass 
between  a  peanut  roaster  and  a  banshee  with 
bronchitis.  Every  engineer  in  the  Daker  plant 
had  worked  over  it. 

"Can't  be  done,"  said  Old  Man  Hatton. 
"Another  three  months  and  I'll  show  you." 
"Hope  you  do,  son.     Hope  you  do." 
But  in  another  three  months  Chug  Scaritt  was 
one  of  a  million  boys  destined  to  take  off  a  pink- 
striped  shirt,  a  nobby  belted  suit,  and  a  long- 
visored  cap  to    don    a  rather  bob-tailed    brown 
outfit.     It  was  some  eighteen  months  later  before 
he  resumed  the  chromatic  clothes  with  an  ardour 
out  of  all  proportion  to  their  style  and  cut.     But 
in  the  interval  between  doffing  pink-striped  shirt 
and  donning  pink-striped  shirt.     .     .     . 

No  need  to  describe  Camp  Sibley,  two  miles 
outside  Chippewa,  and  the  way  it  grew  miracu 
lously,  overnight,  into  a  khaki  city.  No  going 
into  detail  concerning  the  effective  combination 
formed  by  Chug  and  a  machine  gun.  These 
things  were  important  and  interesting.  But 
perhaps  not  more  interesting  than  the  seemingly 
unimportant  fact  that  in  July  following  that  April 
Chug  was  dancing  blithely  and  rhythmically  with 


THE  DANCING  GIRLS  307 

Elizabeth  Weld,  and  saying,  "Angle  Ration's  a 
smooth  little  dancer,  all  right;  but  she  isn't  in  it 
with  you." 

For  Chippewa,  somehow,  had  fused.  Chippewa 
had  forgotten  sets,  sections,  cliques,  factions,  and 
parties,  and  formed  a  community.  It  had,  figur 
atively,  wiped  out  the  railroad  tracks,  together 
with  all  artificial  social  boundaries.  Chug  Scaritt, 
in  uniform,  must  be  kept  happy.  He  must  be 
furnished  with  wholesome  recreation,  fun,  amuse 
ment,  entertainment.  There  sprang  up,  seemingly 
overnight,  a  great  wooden  hall  in  Elm  Street,  on 
what  had  been  a  vacant  lot.  And  there,  by  day  or 
by  night,  were  to  be  had  music,  and  dancing,  and 
hot  cakes,  and  magazines,  and  hot  coffee,  and  ice 
cream  and  girls.  Girls!  Girls  who  were  straight, 
and  slim,  and  young,  and  bright-eyed,  and  com 
panionable.  Girls  like  Angie  Hatton.  Girls  like 
Betty  Weld.  Betty  Weld,  who  no  longer  sat 
against  the  wall  at  the  golf-club  dances  and  prayed 
in  her  heart  that  fat  old  Oakley  wasn't  coming  to 
ask  her  to  dance. 

Betty  Weld  was  so  popular  now  that  the  host 
ess  used  to  have  to  say  to  her,  in  a  tactful  aside, 
"My  dear,  you've  danced  three  times  this  evening 
with  the  Scaritt  boy.  You  know  that's  against 
the  rules." 

Betty  knew  it.     So  did  Chug.     Betty  danced  so 


308  HALF  PORTIONS 

lightly  that  Chug  could  hardly  feel  her  in  his  arms. 
He  told  her  that  she  ran  sweet  and  true  like  the 
engine  of  a  high-powered  car,  and  with  as  little 
apparent  effort.  She  liked  that,  and  understood. 

It  was  wonderful  how  she  understood.  Chug 
had  never  known  that  girls  could  understand  like 
that.  She  talked  to  you,  straight.  Looked  at 
you,  straight.  Was  interested  in  the  things  that 
interested  you.  No  waist-squeezing  here.  No 
cheap  banter.  You  even  forgot  she  wore  glasses. 

"I'm  going  to  try  to  get  over." 

"Say,  you  don't  want  to  do  that." 

"I  certainly  do.     Why  not ? " 

"  You're — why,  you're  too  young.  You're  a  girl. 
You're " 

"I'm  as  old  as  you,  or  almost.  They're  sending 
heaps  of  girls  over  to  work  in  the  canteens,  and 
entertain  the  boys.  If  they'll  take  me.  I'll  have 
to  lie  six  months  on  my  age." 

Rudie  was  in  charge  of  the  garage  now.  "That 
part  of  it's  all  right,"  Chug  confided  to  the  Weld 
girl.  "Only  thing  that  worries  me  is  Ma.  She 
hasn't  peeped,  hardly,  but  I  can  see  she's  pretty 
glum,  all  right." 

"I  don't  know  your  mother,"  said  the  Weld 
girl. 

"Thasso,"  absent-mindedly,  from  Chug. 

"I'd—like  to." 


THE  DANCING  GIRLS  309 

Chug  woke  up.  "Why,  say,  that'd  be  fine! 
Listen,  why  don't  you  come  for  Sunday  dinner. 
I've  got  a  hunch  we'll  shove  off  next  week,  and 
this '11  be  my  last  meal  away  from  camp.  They 
haven't  said  so,  but  I  don't  know — maybe  you 
wouldn't  want  to,  though.  Maybe  you — we  live 
the  other  side  of  the  tracks " 

"  I'd  love  to,"  said  the  Weld  girl.  "  If  you  think 
your  mother  would  like  to  have  me." 

"  Would  she !    And  cook !    Say ! " 

The  Widow  Weld  made  a  frightful  fuss.  Said 
that  patriotism  was  all  right,  but  that  there  were 
limits.  Betty  put  on  her  organdie  and  went. 

It  began  with  cream  soup  and  ended  with  short 
cake.  Even  Chug  realized  that  his  mother  had 
outdone  herself.  After  his  second  helping  of 
shortcake  he  leaned  back  and  said,  "Death, 
where  is  thy  sting?"  But  his  mother  refused  to 
laugh  at  that.  She  couldn't  resist  telling  Miss 
Weld  that  it  was  plain  food  but  that  she  hoped 
she'd  enjoyed  it. 

Elizabeth  Weld  leaned  forward.  "  Mrs.  Scaritt, 
it's  the  best  dinner  I've  ever  eaten." 

Mrs.  Scaritt  flushed  a  little,  but  protested, 
politely:  "Oh,  now!  You  folks  up  in  the  East 
End " 

41  Not  the  Welds.  Mother  and  I  are  as  poor  as 
can  be.  Everybody  knows  that.  We  have  lots  of 


310  HALF  PORTIONS 

doylies  and  silver  on  the  table,  but  very  little  to 
eat.  We  never  could  afford  a  meal  like  this. 
We're  sort  of  crackers-and-tea  codfish,  really." 

"Oh,  now,  Miss  Weld!"  Chug's  mother  was 
aghast  at  such  frankness.  But  Chug  looked  at 
the  girl.  She  looked  at  him.  They  smiled  under- 
standingly  at  each  other. 

An  hour  or  so  later,  after  Elizabeth  had  admired 
the  vegetable  garden,  the  hanging  flower-baskets, 
the  new  parlour  curtains  ("I  used  to  do  'em  up  for 
folks  in  town,"  said  Mrs.  Scaritt,  "so's  Chug  could 
go  to  high  school."  And  "I  know  it.  That's 
what  I  call  splendid,"  from  the  girl),  she  went 
home,  escorted  by  Chug. 

Chug's  hunch  proved  a  good  one.  In  a  week  he 
was  gone.  Thirteen  months  passed  before  he  saw 
Elizabeth  Weld  again.  When  he  did,  Chippewa 
had  swung  back  to  normal.  The  railroad  tracks 
were  once  more  boundary  lines. 

Chug  Scaritt  went  to  France  to  fight.  Three 
months  later  Elizabeth  Weld  went  to  France  to 
dance.  They  worked  hard  at  their  jobs,  these 
two.  Perhaps  Elizabeth's  task  was  the  more 
trying.  She  danced  indefatigably,  tirelessly,  mag 
nificently.  Miles,  and  miles,  and  miles  of  danc 
ing.  She  danced  on  rough  plank  floors  with  cracks 
an  inch  wide  between  the  boards.  She  danced  in 
hospitals,  chateaux,  canteens,  huts;  at  Bordeaux, 


THE  DANCING  GIRLS  311 

Verdun,  Tours,  Paris.  Five  girls,  often,  to  five 
hundred  boys.  Every  two  weeks  she  danced  out  a 
pair  of  shoes.  Her  feet,  when  she  went  to  bed  at 
night,  were  throbbing,  burning,  aching,  swollen. 
No  hot  water.  You  let  them  throb,  and  burn,  and 
ache,  and  swell  until  you  fell  asleep.  She  danced 
with  big  blond  bucks,  and  with  little  swarthy 
doughboys  from  New  York's  East  Side.  She 
danced  with  privates,  lieutenants,  captains;  and 
once  with  a  general.  But  never  a  dance  with  Chug. 

Once  or  twice  she  remembered  those  far-away 
Chippewa  golf-club  dances.  She  was  the  girl  who 
used  to  sit  there  against  the  wall  1  She  used  to  look 
away  with  pretended  indifference  when  a  man 
crossed  the  floor  toward  her — her  heart  leaping  a 
little.  He  would  always  go  to  the  girl  next  to  her. 
She  would  sit  there  with  a  set  smile  on  her  face, 
and  the  taste  of  ashes  in  her  mouth.  And  those 
shoddy  tulle  evening  dresses  her  mother  had 
made  her  wear!  Girlish,  she  had  called  them.  A 
girl  in  thick-lensed  glasses  should  not  wear  tulle 
evening  frocks  with  a  girlish  note.  Elizabeth  had 
always  felt  comic  in  them.  Yet  there  she  had  sat, 
shrinking  lest  the  odious  Oakley,  of  the  fat  white 
fingers  and  the  wheezy  breath,  should  ask  her 
to  dance. 

She  reflected,  humorously,  that  if  the  miles  of 
dancing  she  had  done  in  the  past  year  were  placed 


312  HALF  PORTIONS 

end  to  end,  as  they  do  it  in  the  almanac's  fascinating 
facts,  they  must  surely  reach  to  Mars  and  return. 

Whenever  the  hut  door  opened  to  admit  a  tall, 
graceful,  lean  brown  figure  her  heart  would  give  a 
little  leap  and  a  skip.  As  the  door  did  this  on  an 
average  of  a  thousand  times  daily  her  cardiac 
processes  might  be  said  to  have  been  alarmingly 
accelerated. 

Sometimes — though  they  did  not  know  it — she 
and  Chug  were  within  a  half  hour's  ride  of  each 
other.  In  all  those  months  they  never  once  met. 

Elizabeth  Weld  came  back  to  Chippewa  in  June. 
The  First  National  Bank  Building  seemed  to  have 
shrunk;  and  she  thought  her  mother  looked  old 
in  that  youthful  hat.  But  she  was  glad  to  be 
home  and  said  so. 

"It  has  been  awful  here,"  said  the  Widow  Weld. 
"Nothing  to  do  but  sew  at  the  Red  Cross  shop; 
and  no  sugar  or  white  bread." 

"It  must  have  been,"  agreed  Elizabeth. 

"  They're  giving  a  dance  for  you — and  dinner — 
a  week  from  Saturday,  at  the  golf  club.  In  your 
honour." 

"Dance!"  Elizabeth  closed  her  eyes,  faintly. 
Then,  "Who  is?" 

"Well,  Mr.  Oakley's  really  giving  it — that  is, 
it  was  his  idea.  But  the  club  wanted  to  tender 
some  fitting " 


THE  DANCING  GIRLS  313 

"I  won't  go." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will." 

Elizabeth  did  not  argue  the  point.  She  had  two 
questions  to  ask, 

"Have  the  boys  come  back?" 

"What  boys?" 

"The— the  boys." 

"Some  of  them.  You  know  about  dear  Harry 
Hatton,  of  course.  Croix  de 

"What  have  they  done  with  the  Khaki  Club, 
where  they  used  to  give  the  dances?" 

"Closed.  Long  ago.  There  was  some  talk  of 
keeping  it  open  for  a  community  centre,  or  some 
thing,  but  it  fell  through.  Now,  Betty,  you'll 
have  to  have  a  dress  for  Saturday  night.  I  wonder 
if  that  old  chiffon,  with  a  new 

Chug  Scaritt  came  home  in  September.  The 
First  National  Bank  Building  seemed,  some 
how,  to  have  shrunk.  And  his  mother  hadn't 
had  all  that  gray  hair  when  he  left.  He  put 
eager  questions  about  the  garage.  Rudie  had 
made  out,  all  right,  hadn't  he?  Good  old 
scout. 

"The  boys  down  at  the  garage  are  giving  some 
kind  of  a  party  for  you.  Old  Rudie  was  tej'jng  me 
about  it.  I've  got  a  grand  supper  for  you  to 
night,  Chug." 


314  HALF  PORTIONS 

"  Where's  this  party?     I  don't  want  any  party." 

"Woodman's  Hall,  I  think  they  said.  There 
was  some  girl  called  up  yesterday.  Wanda,  her 
name  sounded  like.  I  couldn't " 

"Don't  they  give  dances  any  more  at  the 
Soldiers'  Club  down  on  Elm?" 

"Oh,  that's  closed,  long.  There  was  some  talk 
of  using  it  for  what  they  called  a  community  club. 
The  Eagle  was  boosting  for  a  big  new  place. 
What  they  called  a  Community  Memorial  Centre. 
But  I  don't  know.  It  kind  of  fell  through,  I 
guess." 

"I  won't  go,"  said  Chug,  suddenly. 

"Go  where,  Chug?" 

But  instead  of  answering,  Chug  put  his  second 
question. 

"Have  you  seen — is  that — I  wonder  if  that  Weld 
girl's  back." 

"My,  yes.  Papers  were  full  of  it.  Old  Oakley 
gave  her  a  big  dance,  and  all,  at  the  Country  Club. 
They  say- 

A  week  later,  his  arm  about  Wanda's  big,  yield 
ing  waist,  he  was  dancing  at  Woodman's  Hall. 
There  was  about  her  a  cheap,  heavy  scent.  She 
had  on  a  georgette  blouse  and  high-heeled  shoes. 
She  cH'ng  to  Chug  and  smiled  up  at  him.  Wanda 
had  bad  teeth — yellow,  with  a  sort  of  scum  over 
them. 


THE  DANCING  GIRLS  315 

"I  sure  was  lonesome  for  you,  Chug.  You're 
some  dancer,  I'll  say.  Honest,  I  could  dance  with 
you  all  night."  A  little  pressure  of  her  arm. 

Somewhere  in  the  recesses  of  his  brain  a  memory 
cell  broke.  Dimly  he  heard  himself  saying,  "Oh, 
they  all  tell  me  that." 

"Crazy  about  yourself,  ain't  you!" 

"Not  as  crazy  as  I  am  about  you,"  with  tardy 
gallantry. 

Then,  suddenly,  Chug  stopped  dancing.  He 
stopped,  and  stepped  back  from  Wanda's  arms. 
Bergstrom's  two-piece  orchestra  was  in  the  throes 
of  its  jazziest  fox-trot  number.  Chug  stood  there 
a  moment,  in  the  centre  of  the  floor,  staring  at 
Wanda's  face  that  was  staring  back  at  him  in 
vacuous  surprise.  He  turned,  without  a  word, 
and  crossed  the  crowded  floor,  bumping  couples 
blindly  as  he  went.  And  so  down  the  rickety 
wooden  stairs,  into  the  street,  and  out  into  the 
decent  darkness  of  Chippewa's  night. 


THE   END 


THE  COUNTRY  LITE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 


Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
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